


A Minbari Courtship

by BainAduial



Series: A Minbari Courtship [3]
Category: Babylon 5
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 16:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 112,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1717886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BainAduial/pseuds/BainAduial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A formal Minbari courtship amidst the realities of war and a changing universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Series Notes

Note #1: Timeline: events are pretty much occurring as in canon in relation to each other, but the entire thing has been moved back about six months. So den’shah occurs in April of 2260, instead of September. Why? Because I can. I’ve also moved the Dilgar War up about ten years, which is more relevant for the sequel than it is for this fic. So the Dilgar War occurred only about 5 years before the Minbari War. 

Note #2: Why?: I wanted to explore a couple of things with this story. First, I wanted to look at the Minbari as an actual alien species, biologically, culturally, and historically different from humanity. Second, I wanted to explore the effects of cultural seepage – particularly if it’s possible for a human (Marcus and Sinclair) to truly become Minbari, or vice versa (Delenn) – and if it is, what the side effects of such a choice are. Thirdly, I wanted to actually go through a formal Minbari courtship, just for fun, and see if I could come up with that many rituals (it’s bloody hard, for the record!). Fourthly, and perhaps most important, I wanted to explore a relationship between Marcus and Neroon that works in the B5 universe we know with all of its laws (Alien Prohibition, anyone?) and problems intact. I wanted to look at a Minbari people who aren’t all either fanatics, or unreasonably accepting of Marcus. Basically, I wanted to see if I could make one small change in the B5 canon – namely, the creation of a romantic relationship between Marcus and his favourite Minbari – and see what kind of ripple effect this has on the events of that universe. 

Note #3: Comparative Time: A Minbari cycle is 1.27 times as long as an earth year. One year (earth) consists of: 365 days of 24 hours each, 52 weeks of 7 days each, and 12 months of 4 weeks (about 28 days) each. One cycle (Minbar) consists of: 464 days of 18 hours each, 52 weeks of 9 days each, and 17 months of 3 weeks (27 days) each. So the months are pretty much the same length, Minbar just has more of them. Where necessary, I’ll use the Minbari word for week (see glossary below) to indicate which week I’m talking about.  
A human will generally live between 100-120 years. A Minbari will typically live between 110 and 160 cycles (140-200 earth years). Minbari mature slower, reaching adulthood at near 30 rather than the human 15-20. This means that ages of humans and Minbari can be rather relative; a human can be more mature and therefor “older” than a chronologically older Minbari (as in the case of Marcus and Lennier). It also means that a Minbari child’s age in cycles isn’t necessarily a good way for a human to tell how far along in their development that child is. So, for reference, the ages of major characters in this story in earth years:  
Marcus Cole: 36  
Neroon: 60ish  
Lennier: 38 (Lennier’s bonecrest grows during the course of the series. I’m taking this as evidence that he’s not entirely physically mature when he first appears on the show. Sort of like how my 21-year-old brother just got WAY broader.)  
The rest can probably be figured out from those three. Susan Ivanova, for instance, is five or six years younger than Marcus, judging by the fact that she was barely old enough to join EarthForce when the Battle of the Line happened.

Note #4: Weather: According to the B5 tech manual, the average temperature on Minbar is 12 degrees (I will assume this to be in Celsius, since my brain doesn’t operate in Fahrenheit). It also says that 23% of the planet is covered in polar ice caps. Given this, I’ve assumed a very long winter for Minbar, particularly in the northern regions, and I’ve given it a lot of snow. Also, judging from the glimpses of it we get in the series, it’s a mountainous planet.  
… Sounds like home. So I’ve written it that way, basing the region around the Star Riders estate (and their common winter activities) around things I’m used to from growing up northwest of everything but some caribou, a few Inuit tribes, and the occasional roaming Mountie with a penchant for deaf half-wolves and Chicago flatfeet with experimental hair (sorry, couldn’t resist). Just for the record, though, an annual average of 12 isn’t that cold, even if it WAS in Fahrenheit (that’s, like, -10 in real temperature, I think)… If the Minbari use Celsius, it’s warmer here than on Minbar. If they use Fahrenheit, it’s about 10 degrees colder on Minbar, on average (Gee, wouldn’t this be a fun and pointless debate?). So certainly well within human tolerance. I suspect the tech manual was written by someone in California… too cold for humans indeed!  
Note #4.5 – (inserted on demand of a friend, who had to ask) A snow cave, for Americans and other creatures of warm climates, is exactly what it sounds like. Find (or build) a snowdrift approximately the same size as a pup tent, pack down the outside, hollow out the inside, shove your packs up against the wall, and you can sleep quite comfortably in the center. Especially if you’ve got more than one person. Make sure you poke air holes, though… 

Note #5: Concerning Minbari: I use several common Minbari terms, and several less common (read: completely made up) names. For your convenience, here is a list of all Minbari terms and names, and their approximate English equivalent (I refuse to believe that all concepts in an alien language translate well into English.) Also, when the three Caste languages developed out of Adrihi’e, I think they developed to express different concepts: the Warrior language to express concretes or absolutes, as well as commands, the Religious language to express philosophical abstracts, etc. It would then make sense that, in order to actually “speak Minbari”, one would have to be fluent in all three languages, because they’re like branches of the same tree. This is a completely acknowledged cop-out to avoid having Marcus and Lennier forced to spend a great deal of time learning a new dialect, but it also has some basis in earth languages. Japanese, for example, has three separate writing systems, all of which must be mastered to read your average Japanese newspaper. So I don’t find this division of the Minbari languages at all improbable. 

 

TERMS: (alphabetical) (from the jumpnow archive. Some interpretations are my own.)

Adrihi’e – the ancient Minbari language, a common root for all three Caste dialects.

Adronato – Religious Caste dialect

Ah’cala – an endearment, best translated as ‘my heart’.

Alyt – roughly “Captain”, but specific to a member of the Warrior Caste who commands a Sharlin-class battle cruiser. The spouse of an Alyt is given the title as an honorific, but does not assume command if the real Alyt is incapacitated (unless they’re also the first officer).

Anla’Shok – “The one who watches the enemy”, a quasi-military organization that primarily operates behind the scenes as spies, messengers, and rescue personnel. Charged by Valen with watching for the return of the Shadows. Although a common misconception exists that the Anla’Shok are associated with the Religious Caste, they are in fact completely separate from all three Castes, both by tradition and by law.

Anla’Shok na – Ranger One, the leader of the Anla’Shok.

Chu’domo – Lennier’s Clan, a monastic sub-sect of the Religious Caste.

Del’Saezha – Grey Council

Den’shah – A duel to the death, using the denn’bok. Dates from before the time of Valen. Is still fought in a heavily stylized (and non-lethal) fashion during certain historical re-enactments and some rituals, and is a popular subject of Minbari dramas. Death, in the context of the den’shah, does not necessarily mean death of the body. It can also be a death of prejudice, death of a relationship, etc. Den’shah can be used to break an engagement prior to the Na’fak Cha (there is no divorce on Minbar, and thus no way to break a relationship after the marriage ceremony has been carried out. This partially explains the lengthy courtship rituals; they want you to be VERY sure).

Denn’bok – a Minbari fighting pike. Made of a durable metal, it can retract to approximately the length of an adult palm.

Dr’aal – Master Teacher; possibly equivalent to a professor on earth. The Religious/Worker equivalent of a Sech.

Entil’zha – Representative of The One (Valen), a title given to four people in the history of Minbar: the One Who Was (Valen), the One Who Is (Delenn), the One Who Will Be (Sheridan) and the One Who Is To Come (presumably the return of Valen). 

Fane – Clan subdivision.

Fik – Worker Caste language. Sometimes written as Vik; it is unclear whether the F or the V is the proper Romanization of the Minbari letter used, but the sound produced is somewhere in between.

Hela’mer – doctor (of medicine)

Id’Minbari – Minbari Soul. Used to indicate humans who are believed to carry reborn Minbari souls.

Ilriam – One of the longest-inhabited regions of Minbar. Located on the northern continent, the climate is harsh even by Minbari standards, although it is also one of the most naturally beautiful regions of the planet. Marked by deposits of clear or white crystal, rather than the colourful outcroppings found in the south. Ancestral home of the Star Riders and Moon Shields Clans of the Warrior Caste. Also the location of the Temple of Vareni.

Isil’zha – A pin worn as part of the Ranger uniform. A particular green stone, with a Minbari on one side and a human on the other. Supposedly quenched three times when forged, once in water, once in Minbari blood, and once in human blood, the isil’zha will glow as long as the Ranger who bears it lives.

Lenn’ah – Warrior Caste language

Ma’fela – fiancé (male). Sometimes translated as lover.

Mala – husband

Marka’ri Minsa – Council of Clans, the main governing body on the planet Minbar.

Na’fak Cha – Minbari rebirth ceremony, also used as the marriage ceremony.

Satai – literally “ruler”; a member of the Grey Council that governs the Minbari Federation.

Satai’sal / Satai’mal – Sister in the Satai / Brother in the Satai.

Sech – drill master

Sher’shok Dum – “Ancient Enemy”, the Minbari term for the Shadows.

Shok’na’li – First officer

Shon’fal – one of the final rituals before marriage, in which the couple explore each other’s pleasure centers with witnesses in the outer room.

Tha’Domo – a fighting order of the Religious Caste, known to accompany the Warrior Caste into battle in the ancient past. Now primarily a monastic order. 

Tuzan’oore (Tuzanor, Tuzenor) – City of Sorrows, one of the main cities of the southern continent on Minbar. Site of the Ranger training facility.

Valsta – a Minbari week, consisting of nine days (see note #3)

Yed’oore (Yedor) – the Eternal City, on the southern continent of Minbar. Probably the closest thing the Minbari have to a planetary capital, since it houses the chambers of the Marka’ri Minsa as well as the Library where important documents are archived.

 

NAMES: (in order of appearance)  
Neroon – Brave Warrior  
Marcus Cole – Warlike Victorious  
Delenn – Grey Traveller  
Lennier – Travelling Companion  
Shakiri – Turbulent Sea  
Siarann – Quiet Watcher  
Haynwa – Hands of Peace  
Calafenn – Walks Carefully  
Helacann – Strong Builder  
Siarhael – Quiet Fire  
Fara – Shining Dawn  
Durhan – Challenge Seeker  
Turval – Valen’s Standard Bearer  
Ardiri – Sea of Light  
Ardminn – Bright Candle  
Nerlin – Strong Combat  
Aalann – Seeker of Mastery  
Kalain – Conquers Adversity  
Rathenn – Confident Explorer  
Sinoval – Ally of Valen  
Vashaer – Plan Director  
Mazik – New Strength  
Hedronn – Purposeful Expedition  
Morann – Finishes What Is Started  
Jenimer – Uniter  
Teerin – Harmony

 

(It occurs to me that I need a life…)


	2. Part 1

Neroon stood quietly behind Marcus as the station’s doctor finished examining him.

“Well, Marcus, all I can say is that if you’d listen to us this well every time you’re injured, we’d see far less of you,” Dr. Hobbs said, making a last notation to the chart she held. “You’re as healed as we can make you. The rest is just getting your conditioning back, and I think we can depend on you to take care of that yourself.”

Marcus grinned at her. “Oh go on, you’ll miss me. You know you will.”

She snorted and shook her head. “Get out of my medlab.”

Marcus clutched his heart as if in great pain, but hopped down easily from the examining table. Neroon was relieved to see him moving so freely; he’d been worried that he’d done permanent damage, the human had been so slow to heal. He waited while Marcus gathered his cloak, and they left the medlab, heading for the Zocalo.

“What happens now?” Neroon asked as they moved through the crowds.

“What do you mean?” Marcus asked, fingering some fine fabric one trader had on display.

“You will return to active duty,” Neroon clarified.

“Ah yes. That. I still have to speak to Delenn; she’s been less than forthcoming. I think it worries her that you’re on the station and not making trouble for her, honestly.”

Neroon smirked. His relationship with the Religious Caste leader would never be smooth, and any chance to discomfort her was a good thing, to his mind. Besides, he only had Marcus for these few weeks while he was healing. He was not eager to return his heart to Delenn, now that he had found it. But he knew that their peaceful little idyll was coming to an end; even if Marcus did not have to return to duty, the Ingata would be docking with the station at the end of the week and Neroon would leave with it. 

“Something will work out,” Marcus said cheerfully, reading the direction of his thoughts. “It always does.”

“I wish I had your faith in the universe,” Neroon responded quietly. “But look around you. Even here in Babylon 5, where there are more alien races gathered together than has ever occurred, where friendships arise between the most unlikely of individuals, people stare at the sight of a human Anla’Shok and a Minbari Warrior walking together. And all we do is walk. What do you think the response will be, to the call of our hearts? Do you suppose your friends will rejoice that you have chosen the man who nearly killed you? Do you suppose my Clan will welcome you with open arms?”

Marcus shook his head. “I gave up hoping for life to be fair a long time ago, Neroon. I’ve fought for everything I have; I expect to fight for this as well.”

Neroon smiled. “It is a great pity you were not born to the Warrior Caste. You would be a great Alyt now, despite your age.”

Marcus chuckled. “If I marry you, I’ll be an Alyt anyway,” he noted. “Enough. I have the rest of today before I have to report to Delenn; how shall we spend it?”

Neroon smiled. “Would you care to spar?” he asked, eyes twinkling.

Marcus grinned enthusiastically. “As long as you don’t beat me insensible again,” he answered, “I’d love to!”

They moved off in the direction of the station’s gym, unaware of the eyes that watched them knowingly. Their observer waited until he was sure they had gone, before blending quietly back into the shadows and moving off in a different direction, face a mask of thoughtfulness. If what he had just overheard was true, then he had much work ahead of him.

***

“Entil’zha,” Marcus greeted his leader the next morning, back in full uniform and standing before her door at the appointed hour.

“Marcus,” she smiled slightly. “Come in. Lennier is just finishing tea.”

“Tea would be wonderful,” Marcus agreed, taking a seat on one of the cushions as Delenn’s aide set out three cups. After they had all taken an appropriate number of sips, he set his cup down and waited.

“You are healed?” Delenn asked.

“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have reported for duty,” Marcus pointed out gently. “I’m a little out of practice, but that’s easy enough to fix.”

Delenn nodded. “Good. I may have a mission for you.”

Marcus’s face showed no expression, but inside, he shouted a denial. They had only a week before Neroon would be taken from him by duty; must that time be shortened even more? But he was a Ranger, and if she ordered him away, then he would go. He had sworn to finish William’s work, and destroy the Shadows; only after that would there be time for other things. If they failed and the Shadows won, then there would be no time at all, for any of them.

“You seem troubled,” Delenn commented after he’d been silent for longer than usual. “Are you not pleased to be returning to duty?”

Marcus jerked his head up, and nodded. “Yes, of course I am! It’s only that I didn’t expect to be sent away so soon.”

Delenn hid a smile. “You may be less surprised, when you hear where you are going.” She sipped her tea again. “Tell me, Marcus, how much do you know of Minbari politics? Sometimes I forget that you are not one of us, and expect you to know more than you do. That would be disastrous now.”

Marcus frowned. “Define politics.”

“The organization of the Castes, Clans and Guilds, and the overall governing structure that all answer to,” Delenn clarified.

“Well,” Marcus said, leaning back and closing his eyes as he pulled his research up into the forefront of his mind. “The Worker Caste is the largest, comprised of approximately three quarters of the Minbari people. They are organized into a variety of Guilds according to their profession. Each Guild has a hierarchy of skill, and is led by a Dr’aal. Those Dr’aals form the Worker Caste Union, which governs all matters that concern the Worker Caste as a whole. The Union also represents the Caste and its concerns in the Marka’ri Minsa.

“The Religious Caste is next, comprising between fifteen and twenty percent of the Minbari. You answer to your Clan elders and also to the Dr’aal of whichever temple or parish you serve. In conflicts between Clan and Temple loyalty, the Temple always comes first, but those conflicts are rare because nearly all the priests are affiliated in some way with the dominant Religious Clan, the Clan Mir. The Clan elders and Temple Dr’aals, as well as the High Priest and High Priestess form the Religious Caste’s governing body, and sit on the Council of Clans as representatives of the Caste. 

“The Warrior Caste is the smallest, comprising between five and ten percent of your population. Warriors are grouped into five Clans; if someone from outside the Caste wishes to become a Warrior, they must be formally adopted into one of them. Clan loyalty is of paramount importance; warships are rarely if ever crewed by more than one Clan, and then only in the case of an apprenticeship or other exchange among the youth. The only exception is the flagship, which is traditionally crewed by all the Clans; the last flagship was the Dralafi. Each Clan is governed internally by the Clan Elders and the matriarch, but the Warrior Caste as a whole is governed by a council of the oldest Elder of all five Clans, as well as the elected Shai Alyt. The Shai Alyt is elected once every ten years, or after a one-year period of mourning following the death of the current Shai Alyt. The five Elders and the Shai Alyt sit on the Marka’ri Minsa for the Warrior Caste.

“The Marka’ri Minsa is the highest internal governing body of the Minbari Federation. Apart from the representatives from each Caste, there are certain other important individuals – usually city officials and the like – who hold a full voting position, as well as a number of public figures like yourself who may not vote but have the right to speak in meetings. There is also some overlap between the Castes and Clans, especially if you start charting old marriages and which children chose to leave their parent’s Caste and all that.

“Outside of this are the Anla’Shok, who renounce all ties to Caste and Clan in order to join. We’re a completely separate body, and we answer to Anla’Shok na and our teachers. Since we exist outside of the Caste structure, we have neither a representative nor a voice in the Council of Clans, but neither can they interfere with us or punish us in any way. 

“The highest governing body was the Del’Saezha, the Grey Council. Nine members, three from each Caste; it governed external matters, stepped in at the request of the Marka’ri Minsa, and was the only governing body that could intervene between the Castes and the Rangers if either side had a complaint. Only a representative of the Marka’ri Minsa and Anla’Shok na had the right to approach the Grey Council. However, they were disbanded,” here Marcus sent a slightly ironic look at his hostess, “So technically, the highest governing body on Minbar right now is the Marka’ri Minsa.”

Delenn’s expression was impressed. “I had no idea you made such an in-depth study of my people, although after the den’shah, I should have expected it.”

Marcus shrugged. “Knowledge is as much a weapon as anything else. Besides, I have an eidetic memory, and I’m insatiably curious. The two work well together.”

“You know that in the absence of the Grey Council, there has been growing tension between the Castes, and between the Castes and the Rangers?” Delenn asked.

“I guessed,” Marcus admitted. “It seemed like a logical response.”

Delenn nodded. “It is, but it worries me. Until the Shadows have been defeated, we do not have time for such internal disagreements. I have been seeking a way to unite the Castes, in the absence of the Council, so that they will at the very least fight together to save us all.”

“Where do I come in?” Marcus asked curiously. “As a human, the Castes aren’t exactly likely to listen to my opinion.”

Delenn smiled slightly. “No, they are not. But I know at least one member of the Warrior Caste who will.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow in question.

“Did you expect that your friendship with Neroon would not be remarked upon?” Delenn asked him. “All the Minbari on the station talk of it. None can believe that Neroon of the Star Riders, grandnephew of the Clan Elder and matriarch, who lost a sister aboard the Dralafi, who was the second choice to become the new Shai Alyt, has befriended a human Anla’Shok.”

Marcus hid a wince. He’d hoped they’d been discreet enough to escape notice, but apparently they hadn’t. At least the gossip didn’t appear to have latched on to their deepening relationship yet; if it had, Delenn would be far more outraged, and far less amused.

“I won’t deny that I was surprised, especially after the manner of your meeting,” Delenn continued, “But as time went on I began to see how this could be an advantage. The Anla’Shok are far too isolated; most Minbari have never had contact with one of our order. They do not know what we are, or what we fight for. And so when we ask them for aid, they do not give it. But the time has come for us to need that aid. I have decided to begin posting Rangers in certain key places, to create understanding and common purpose between the Rangers and the Castes, and hopefully to lessen tensions between the Castes themselves as well.”

Marcus’ eyes grew calculating. “It could work. Place enough of us with important people, let them see that we aren’t any different from them, that we’re working towards the preservation of all our people, and it may be enough to sway them into entering the war after all. Is that where you intend me to go?”

Delenn nodded. “If Neroon will agree, then I will assign you as the first Ranger representative to the Warrior Caste, posted to the Ingata. You will train with the Warriors, share our traditions and try to learn theirs, and serve as a liaison between us. Is this acceptable to you?”

Marcus carefully controlled his expression. “It’s an honour, Entil’zha. I believe Neroon will agree, if you present it to him as you have to me. I know he wishes to increase tolerance between the Castes; his living sister is a chef of the Worker Caste, and the recent troubles worry him.”

Delenn smiled. “Good. I will speak to him immediately, then. It will be an uncomfortable conversation, as it always is when both of us are in the same room, but I believe that if anyone can accomplish this, it’s you, Marcus.”

Marcus bowed slightly. “I live to serve,” he murmured.

Delenn sighed. “I hope someday you will live for more than service, however noble an occupation it is,” she admitted. “I would like to see you happy, Marcus.”

Marcus smiled. “I am, Entil’zha. I am.”

Delenn nodded, though she didn’t look as if she entirely believed him. “Then I am content.”

Marcus prepared to rise. “Is there anything else?” he asked.

“Yes,” Delenn answered, surprising him. “And it pains me greatly to do this, but I believe it is for the good of all. I wish Lennier to go with you.”

Marcus could tell by the sudden paling of the young priest’s face that she had not discussed her plans with him previously. “May I ask why?”

“Because there is too much misunderstanding between the Warrior and Religious Castes especially, and he is trained in the order of Tha’Domo. They will respect a fighter more than they will respect a seeker of wisdom, although he is that as well. It is my hope that between you, you will give us a chance to begin to understand each other.”

Marcus looked closely at the Entil’zha. He could tell she was keeping something back, and he suspected he knew what it was. She had finally admitted that the love Lennier bore her was not going to go away, and that, as Marcus had long known, it was not a platonic friendship. So she was removing the young priest from temptation, in the hopes that he would then be able to move on. It was a hope Marcus shared; Minbari did not love easily, but when they loved, it was with all their soul, and unrequited love could drive them mad in time. It was not a fate he would wish on his worst enemy, and he would do everything in his power to keep it from a friend.

“As you wish,” Marcus acknowledged the order. “I admit, it will be pleasant to have a familiar face about. What do you say, Lennier, shall we scandalize all of Neroon’s Warriors?”

Lennier managed a small, strained smile. “I am sure we shall,” he murmured. “If you will excuse me, I must go meditate now.” 

Marcus watched him leave, eyes troubled, then took his own leave so that Delenn could call Neroon for their conference.

***

Neroon answered Delenn’s summons somewhat warily. He hadn’t yet had a chance to speak to Marcus, and he worried that whatever conference she desired to have with him would prevent him from seeing the human before he left on whatever insane mission she was sending him on now.

“Satai’sal Delenn,” he greeted when her door opened, bowing slightly and wondering briefly where her usual aide was, that she was answering the door herself.

“Satai’mal Neroon,” she greeted back, gesturing him inside and offering him tea. He sipped politely, appreciating the taste of home. It was the same blend his mother usually used.

“Given our previous relationship, I must wonder why you requested my presence so urgently. Surely you must be content to see as little of me as possible for the remainder of my time on the station?” Neroon asked bluntly.

Delenn smiled. “I would indeed, but I need your help.”

Neroon barked out a laugh. “This is a first! Delenn of Mir needs the help of the Warrior Caste! Are your little Anla’Shok not sufficient to fill your need for sending good fighters to their deaths?”

Delenn paled a little, but answered calmly enough. “This is not about our past, nor about the command of the Rangers, Neroon. I know you will always believe that they would be better led by a Warrior, but the Warrior Caste would not act until it was too late. Someone had to. I seek to prevent the same from happening again. I wish to build bridges of understanding, between the Castes, and between the Castes and the Rangers.”

Neroon put his teacup down carefully, and adopted a listening pose. “I will hear you,” he said, intrigued despite himself. What could she possibly be planning?

“I have already discussed this with certain others, and the first stages of this plan are being implemented among the Religious and Worker Castes as we speak. I would like you to be involved in bringing it to the Warriors; your voice will be heard and listened to. I wish to send a Ranger and a priest with you aboard the Ingata, to learn about the Warriors and so that you may learn about them. The time is coming when we must all fight together, or we shall all perish.”

Neroon frowned. “You speak of the return of the ancient enemy, the Sher’shok Dum.”

Delenn nodded briefly. 

“You know that the Warrior Caste does not believe they have returned in strength.”

“I know. That is why those I wish to send with you have had personal contact with them; if they cannot convince your Caste to act, then I know of no other way, and the Religious and Worker Castes will be forced to die for the protection of Minbar while the Warriors sit home and debate the nature of the enemy.”

Neroon winced, but acknowledged her jibe. “There are many among the Warrior caste who believe as you do. Many of us count Religious Caste among the members of our Clans, and many of us can read the ancient prophecies as well as you can. But Shakiri is the Shai Alyt now, and you know what he will say.”

Delenn’s eyes narrowed. “Shakiri has always been a coward and a traitor to the ideals of Valen and the good of the Minbari. I have seen it in all his dealings with my Caste. How he was ever elected to the position of Shai Alyt, I do now know. What I ask of you may mean going against him; are you willing? You are the only one who can; of the others who were Satai, none have your connections or your respect.”

“You admit that I command respect. This is a great day,” Neroon remarked sarcastically.

“I admit that which is obvious. You are respected among your Caste, possibly more than Shakiri.”

Neroon bowed his thanks; it was true, although saying it out loud was skirting the edges of propriety. Only the fact that they had both been Satai allowed it. “Shakiri is a great Warrior, and has always been respected by my Caste. I am no longer Satai; what you ask of me is treason, and I will not betray my Shai Alyt. I will not go against his orders. But I also agree to your proposition, in principle. It would be a very good thing for the Castes to become less isolated, and an exchange of people and ideas might turn the tide of this war. Why have you chosen the Ingata to begin this work?”

“Because you admit your mistakes and learn from them, and because you will listen to the council of the Ranger I have chosen to send with you. You will allow him to perform the task I have set out, and you will ensure that your crew does as well,” Delenn answered.

“You seem very sure of that,” Neroon remarked.

“Marcus will go with you,” Delenn returned. “You cannot deny that he has your friendship and your respect. His having survived den’shah against you will give him the respect of your crew. From there the sentiment will spread.”

Neroon controlled his expression viciously. “Marcus’ presence would be an asset to any Warrior crew, and I will gladly accept him among mine, since it is the responsibility of the Alyt to crew his ship as he sees fit. But you mentioned a priest as well; my crew will not tolerate those so easily. It is a fighting ship; we have little time to ponder the mysteries of the universe.”

Delenn nodded. “That is why I am sending you a member of the Tha’Domo order. My aide, Lennier.”

Neroon allowed his surprise to show at this declaration. “I am honoured. It has been a long time since a Tha’Domo served aboard one of our warships; their reputation precedes them. I accept; my crew will benefit from his presence as well. May this open a path to understanding between our Castes, so that we may begin creating the future of our people.”

“May it be so,” Delenn returned. “There is another advantage; with both Marcus and Lennier aboard, you and I need never speak directly while we coordinate our efforts.”

Neroon smirked. “That is an advantage indeed. If you will excuse me, there are preparations I must make.”

Delenn bowed, and rose to see him out of her quarters.

***

Marcus wasn’t really surprised by the visitor who appeared at his door later that evening, long past the hour when most of Babylon 5’s command personnel had left their duties behind them. Lennier’s appearance was impeccable as always, but Marcus could read the shadows lurking in the young priest’s eyes.

“Come in,” he said quietly, gesturing his friend to a seat and pouring them both tea he’d had steeping. He hadn’t been sure whether Lennier or Neroon would be the first to avail themselves of his hospitality, but he had been reasonably certain of seeing at least one of them before the night was out.

“Thank you,” Lennier murmured, accepting the tea and finding a seat on the floor, near the altar but strangely neither facing it nor offering his usual obeisance.

“Don’t let your faith suffer while your heart does,” Marcus advised, taking his own cup of tea.

Lennier’s expression would have been a raised eyebrow on a human. “Why should my heart suffer?” he asked.

Marcus snorted. “You confided in me for your Na’fak Cha, my friend. I know what she means to you.”

Lennier’s expression grew even calmer. “It does not matter. She may send me where she will; I am honoured to serve.”

“There is more to life than service, Lennier,” Marcus said. “Believe me. I know.”

Lennier shook his head slightly. “You are hardly one to lecture on a life outside of service, Marcus. You must know the reputation you have among the Rangers. They say you care nothing for your own life, that you will take any mission, perform any duty in the service of our cause. Tell me these are the actions of a man who lives for anything but duty.”

Marcus shook his head. “I can’t.”

“At least I do not throw myself at death, hoping it will catch me,” Lennier prodded.

Marcus bowed his acknowledgement of the point. “I can’t refute that. I’ve only just begun to understand how much more there can be to my life, beyond my duty to the Rangers. Beyond the end of this war.”

“What do you see?” Lennier asked, curious.

“A family,” Marcus smiled slightly. “Something I’ve been missing for a long time. A place and a purpose that are only mine, not something I borrowed from others.” He looked closely at Lennier. “What about you? What do you see, when the Shadows have been driven back?”

“I will continue to serve Delenn, in whatever way she wishes,” Lennier said. 

“She will never love you, Lennier,” Marcus said bluntly. Lennier’s eyes shot sparks at him, but he didn’t back down. “I’m saying this as your friend. She does not love you, and she will not. Not as anything more than a very dear friend. You will destroy yourself if you continue on this path.”

“You know so much about us, and still you understand so little,” Lennier told him seriously. “I do not have a choice, Marcus. Our biology does not work that way.”

“What do you mean?” Marcus asked, curious. He’d heard bits and pieces, but he had never bothered really delving into Minbari relationships.

“Minbari biology. You think many of our beliefs are religious in nature, and perhaps they are. But they are rooted in simple biology. The matter of our being reborn is part of this; we are all connected on some very deep level, and we know the strength of all our people. And that strength has been diminishing. In the earliest days, such a connection was only found within individual Clans. But as we intermarried, it came to be that all Minbari were on some unseen, immeasurable level one being. It is why it is so easy for us to live lives of service to Caste and Clan, never straying outside the roles they have chosen, never questioning orders that come from our leaders. Like – oh, let us say we are like the bees on your world, even though it is a gross oversimplification. Every Minbari functions safe in the knowledge that every other Minbari is in the proper place at the proper time. If that makes any sense. It is hard to explain something that we simply grow up knowing.”

Marcus digested that. “What about Minbari like Delenn, then?” he wondered. “She questions everything.”

“There are always a small percentage of our people who are born with a genetic marker that lets them think outside of this…collective. They almost always end up in high-ranking positions, and since it is genetic, over time those families in which it shows up have formed our ruling class. The direct line of all the Warrior Clans – Neroon’s family among them – have it, many of Clan Mir have it, some among the Worker Caste have it. The Satai always have it, and most of the Marka’ri Minsa as well.”

“If this is true, then why do you have such violent tensions arising between the Castes?” Marcus asked.

“Those tensions only arise between the leaders. And the leaders of the Castes are still very much the same as they were in the time before Valen united us as one people. They dispute over territory, over jurisdiction of power, over anything they can. It doesn’t help that there are few enough of them, they are all sent to the same school and pitted against each other in competition to make them stronger leaders. The rest of the Minbari – what you might call the common people – only follow the instructions of their leaders. We are not physically capable of doing anything else.”

“So when you say that understanding is not required, only acceptance,” Marcus mused.

“I mean that quite literally, yes,” Lennier confirmed. “I am not among those who can question what our leaders tell us. I simply accept that they have examined the situation from various points of view, many of which I could never understand, and I move on from there. I trust that they will make the right decisions for my people, and in return I work to make their lives easier by performing the tasks allotted to me efficiently. I am not sure there is any equivalent species on earth, that you could understand us by comparison.”

“Horses, maybe,” Marcus guessed. “Only you’d be many herds, all under the collective rule of several herd stallions and mares. But it’s a loose comparison at best. What does any of this have to do with your feelings for Delenn?”

“I apologize. That was more of a tangent than I intended. The other part of our biology has to do with sexual maturity. You know that Minbari believe that two souls are drawn together in every life, finding each other over and over again?”

“I know about the imprinting, Lennier,” Marcus interjected. He was well aware, after his time on Minbar, that this belief was rooted in the fact that the Minbari imprinted on a single mate and wouldn’t take another even if their chosen died. It wasn’t much like the human concept of a soul mate, though; it was frequently uncomfortable and sometimes flat-out deadly if one imprinted on someone who was already married, or who didn’t imprint back. As Lennier had. Marcus had thought it was more a matter of culture than biology, though. This was the first time he’d heard differently.

“If you know, then why are you surprised that I cannot avoid whatever I might feel for Delenn?” Lennier wondered. “Marcus, while we might be entirely adult in all other respects, full sexual maturity never occurs until a mutual imprinting has. In that sense, when I told you my love for Delenn was pure, I was speaking the literal truth. I am incapable of anything else. But I can no more detach myself from her than I could walk the outside of this station without a breathing apparatus.”

Marcus frowned. He felt like an idiot for not connecting those dots, now that the picture was staring him in the face. “Is there any way?”

“Yes,” Lennier admitted. “But it is unlikely. If I found another person who suited me well enough to override the imprinting, and they wanted me as well even though part of me will always belong to Delenn, always call for her. It would be enough.”

“Why is that so unlikely?” Marcus wondered.

“Because those who suffer unrequited love, on Minbar, do not go looking for other partners. They remain by the side of the one they imprint on, until it drives them mad and they die.” Lennier informed him. “I will give you copies of some of our great tragedies; most of them center around this theme. And who would ever want to bind themselves to someone they could only ever have most of, instead of all?”

Marcus shook his head. “People might surprise you. And Delenn’s ordered you away. You have a chance, unless you’re already too far gone. Will you make me a promise?”

“That will depend on the nature of the promise,” Lennier returned.

“While we’re on this mission, aboard the Ingata, will you try to put her behind you? Be Lennier of the Tha’Domo, a warrior-priest, rather than Lennier the ambassador’s aide. Accept any friendships you are offered, take any chances that come your way. If only for a little while. I do not wish to bury another friend.” Marcus looked to the rose on his altar. “Besides, you may find things about yourself you had forgotten, if you do.”

Lennier thought for a moment, sipping his tea in silence. “Very well,” he agreed finally. “I will do this, on one condition.”

“Name it,” Marcus agreed immediately.

“That you confide in me what is between you and Neroon,” Lennier demanded slyly, changing the subject. “For I know you are more than sparring partners.”

Marcus gaped at him, then burst out laughing. “How in Valen’s name?” he gasped, staring at his friend.

“You do not watch the shadows as closely as you should, when you walk the Zocalo together,” Lennier admitted. “I do not believe anyone else overheard, or understood if they did, but I know you well and I know Neroon through Delenn. The way you spoke, the shift of your bodies as though guarding each other, all of these are clear signs to those with eyes to see. You have become good friends, as good as I believe either of you has ever had.”

Marcus nodded slowly. “We’ve had a great deal of time to talk, these past weeks. Neroon is a good man, and an honourable Warrior. What he did, first in planning to stop Delenn because he was blinded by arrogance, then in accepting and breaking den’shah – it weighed on him, Lennier. He didn’t know where right and wrong were, anymore. His honour was damaged, but more than that, everything he knew to be true was suddenly twisted, not into a lie, but into half of the truth, which is sometimes more dangerous. So he stayed, when his ship left, in search of the answers he needed to set his world right.”

“And you?” Lennier encouraged. “I know you, Marcus. You do not share such closeness with many.”

Marcus shrugged. “I saw someone who was more similar to me than I expected, someone who understood me in a way even the other Rangers don’t. We saved each other, Lennier, somehow. I think we’re still saving each other.”

“You lecture me for the dangerous road my heart has taken, but yours is more dangerous still,” Lennier observed. 

“Do Minbari frown on homosexual relationships?” Marcus wondered. “I hadn’t heard anything while I was in training, but we were learning to kill, not to love.”

“Homosexual?” Lennier asked.

“Between two men or two women,” Marcus clarified.

Lennier shook his head. “Marcus, we are a clan-based society. The care of all children is the responsibility of the entire Clan, but there must be a primary set of parents as well. Long ago, when war and disease and accident killed us in greater numbers, and our birthrate was higher, the care of all orphaned children fell to other couples within the same Clan. But when every couple already had their own children to feed and clothe, it was often a strain to add even one more. So childless couples were an asset to the clan, in many ways. It is not common, no more common than it is among humans, but we certainly have no taboo on the subject as I have read that you once did. That is not what concerns me.”

“What, then?” Marcus asked, puzzled.

“The Alien Prohibition,” Lennier responded.

“The what?” Marcus asked.

“The Alien Prohibition,” Lennier repeated. “How can you know so much about ancient traditions and political systems, but so little about things to do with family and relationships and biology?”

“Because,” Marcus answered, “when I was in training, it didn’t matter. Politics, history, tradition, those things might be important someday for a mission. But why would I learn about your courtship customs, or your family structure? I’m human, Lennier. I thought, in the unlikely event that I ever found someone who suited me, they would be human as well. What is this Alien Prohibition?”

“It is our law, Marcus. Minbari may not marry outside of our species. No one has ever broken it.” 

“We aren’t the first to edge around such a law, Lennier,” Marcus countered.

Lennier bowed his head, acknowledging the point without either of them needing to name the other pair. “No. But she is granted certain… concessions, because of who she was, and who she has become. And who he is, the position he holds. Neroon will not be granted the same, not for you. You will face opposition, possibly even attack. They will not understand.”

“Then we will make them understand,” Marcus swore. “Will you help me? Teach me what I don’t know about Minbari so that I won’t shame him?”

Lennier bowed his agreement. “Of course. But Marcus, if you do this, you understand that you can never be a human again? The only way is for you to embrace our customs fully, to be courted according to our oldest traditions. If not, Neroon will be viewed as a rebel, and will lose any power he has to change things for the better. Can you give up your heritage and your people, for him? Because there is no such thing as a divorce, on Minbar, if you find that you cannot.”

Marcus stared hard at the rose still blooming quietly on his altar. “Minbari pass their family line on through the mother, unless there are only male children and a wife chooses to continue her husband’s clan instead of her own, yes?” he asked.

Lennier nodded, puzzled. “Yes. That’s why Neroon’s situation is so unique; his father was the only heir. By rights, Nerlin of the Star Riders should have gone to the temple, but his wife is the third of five sisters. She believed in continuing an ancient and respected Warrior Clan, believed in it enough to give up both her own Clan and many of her ties to the Religious Caste. It is a well-known story, and there are those who still oppose her decision.”

“Humans don’t. Everything I have came from my father, except one thing. The flower there on the altar. That came from my mother’s people, from a plant that’s bloomed for hundreds of years. According to our family history, an ancestor of mine once left her people and everything she knew, because she loved a foreign man enough that his home became hers. Since then, it has been tradition in my mother’s family to do so, if necessary. When a child of that line does, they take part of this plant with them. I’m the last of the line, and now it will die with me. 

“But as long I have this flower, I’ll have a connection to my past and to my people. As long as I’m not forbidden from praying quietly to the God of my childhood, as long as I’m not prevented from keeping the few heirlooms of my family that survive, as long as you don’t forbid me from holding a feast for friends on certain days that are important to me, then I’ve lost nothing. And I know that this much, Minbari marrying between the Castes are allowed. So I’ve lost nothing, but what I’ll gain is beyond anything I ever hoped for, Lennier. I’m gaining a family, a home, and a place among people who for the first time in my life understand me as well as my mother did.”

“Then I wish you luck, my friend,” Lennier said, happy for the ranger but a little bit envious at the same time. “And I shall look forward to the end of this war, if only to see the day that Neroon of the Star Riders appears before the Marka’ri Minsa to tell them he wishes to court a human. I think it will be an interesting day indeed.”

***

Marcus wished he could slip away in the night, with neither explanations nor goodbyes. But Delenn and Neroon both believed that the more public they made this gesture, the better. He and Lennier would have a full honour guard to see them off on the station, and a full guard to meet them when their shuttle docked with the Ingata. Which meant that Marcus would have no chance at slipping past the human command staff.

He sighed, and raised his hand to press the chime for admittance into Sheridan’s office. At least he could get it over with all at once, by interrupting the senior officers’ meeting. He strode in confidently when Sheridan indicated he could enter.

“Ah, Captain! Susan! Mr. Garibaldi! Wonderful to have caught you together!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “I wonder if I might have a word, Captain?”

Sheridan gave him a look that clearly communicated his suspicions that Marcus knew quite well when the staff meeting was, and had interrupted deliberately, but nodded. “What can we do for you, Marcus?” he asked.

“Well, I’m afraid I’ve come to take my leave, actually,” Marcus indicated. “Lennier and I have been given a mission that’s likely to take us away from the station for quite some time, so I thought I’d let you all know and say my goodbyes before the pomp surrounding it takes up too much of our time.”

“Pomp?” Garibaldi asked. “Don’t you Rangers usually work in secret?”

“Well, yes,” Marcus admitted. “But some secrets are more open than others, Mr. Garibaldi. Delenn, Neroon, some of the teachers at the Ranger facility in Tuzan’oore, the Worker Caste Union, and certain other powers on Minbar have begun implementing a plan to bring the Castes and the Rangers closer together, to build bridges of understanding, as it were. It’s all extraordinarily public and high profile, especially for the Minbari, but Lennier and I will be leaving with the Ingata in four days.”

“What?” Susan exclaimed. “He tried to kill you, and you’re just going to go off on his ship?”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “I challenged him, Commander, not the other way around. He was only acting as honour demanded, and we’ve had several weeks to form a better understanding of each other. Perhaps, with this new trading of personnel, we can help ensure a similar situation never occurs.”

“Still!” Susan snorted.

“I don’t know what will happen; this kind of exchange has never occurred in the history of Minbar. But I do know that without it, you’ll never persuade the Warrior Caste to fight in this war. Not until it’s too late. And I won’t let us lose the support of the best fighting fleet in the known universe, simply because it would mean serving under the command of a man I once fought against!” Marcus defended.

“I agree. Delenn’s mentioned this idea to me in the past, though I didn’t know it was this close to completion. It’s a good chance; we may not get another. You’ll both be missed here,” Sheridan said, “but you’ll do more good there.”

“And it, us,” Marcus agreed. “I believe that should be all; we’ll hardly be out of communication, so there’s no need for long goodbyes. I’ll leave you to your meeting.”

Garibaldi caught up with him as he turned into the hallway. “Whoa, wait up a minute!”

“Yes?” Marcus asked. 

“You’re just leaving like that?” Garibaldi asked.

“I’m a Ranger, Mr. Garibaldi. I go where I’m sent, just like you. Even if I wasn’t, I’d go; much good can come of this exchange, if we let it. The Minbari people have been divided for far too long. I understand why Valen chose to unite them the way he did, under the Grey Council. But after more than a thousand years, his ban is still the only thing keeping them from open civil war. No society can function like that forever. The Castes and the Rangers have to learn to work together to create the future for ourselves now that the Council is gone.”

“Hey, your choice. If I was you, I’d stay. I walked away from a lady once when I shouldn’t have, and I hate to see you make them same mistake.” Garibaldi shrugged.

Marcus blinked. “This is about Susan?” he smiled slightly. “Mr. Garibaldi, I assure you, you needn’t worry.”

“Thought you were going after her?” Garibaldi asked. “What changed?”

“I had several weeks of enforced rest to think about things I’ve been avoiding for some time,” Marcus said. “I do care for Susan, a great deal, as I care for all of you. But she and I are far too similar. I liked the idea that love could heal some of her personal shadows, Mr. Garibaldi. Because then it would heal both of us. It was a fairytale dream, and I’m far too familiar with fairytales to believe it would end well. Goodbye, Mr. Garibaldi. Take care of the place for me!”

He didn’t wait to hear Garibaldi’s rejoinder, instead heading off down the hall at a faster pace than he really needed to. It was true, about Susan; looking at it objectively, after some of the conversations he’d had with Neroon, he could see the infatuation for what it was. They really were too similar for it to ever have worked, although he covered his shadows with humour and deflection, and she wallowed in hers in anger. 

It would destroy her, he knew that now. It had almost destroyed him; Neroon had been correct when he guessed that Marcus faced him in den’shah not just because it was guaranteed to get the Warrior’s attention. Marcus, on some level, had not only expected but welcomed death in that corridor, as he had every time he opened his denn’bok to fight. As, he was beginning to suspect, he had since he’d been barely eighteen and drafted into Earth Force Intelligence. So much had been taken from him, so many decisions about his own life he’d never been able to make, that he’d thrown himself into his duty harder than necessary in order to have some choice in something. Even if it was only the manner and time of his death. 

He’d forgotten, somewhere in the intervening years of struggle and hardship and the eventual destruction of his world, that he was equally able to choose the manner in which he lived under the restrictions placed on him. It wasn’t something he’d forget again, especially not now he had Neroon to remind him. He might not have been given any choice in the path his life took, but he’d be damned if he didn’t seize the unexpected place it had landed him with both hands. 

“You look like a man who has much on his mind, Marcus Cole,” G’kar’s voice surprised him, coming from a hidden corner of the hallway. Marcus berated himself; no Ranger could afford to be so careless of his surroundings, even in territory already deemed safe many times over.

“I’ve received a new assignment,” he offered.

“So I’d heard,” the Narn ambassador smiled. “An interesting assignment, to be sure. Rumour has it that you, Lennier, and this Neroon fellow are out to single-handedly halt the impending Minbari civil war.”

Marcus smiled. “Fishing for information, Ambassador?” he asked slyly. “Your spies are slipping.”

G’kar scoffed. “Spies? What spies? I am simply informing you of the rumours surrounding your near departure! But I do happen to hear most of the whispers that pass through this station, at one time or another. People seem to like to tell me things; it’s a gift, what can I say?”

Marcus smirked. “What have you heard?”

“Oh, now, I couldn’t possibly be responsible for spreading such a vile thing as gossip,” G’kar said amiably. “No, I know nothing certain about what is being said. But there are mutters.”

“And what must one do to hear these mutters?” Marcus inquired.

“Listen closely,” G’kar answered, suddenly serious and much quieter. “You of all people know that nothing here is exactly as it appears.”

“Nothing and no one,” Marcus agreed. “But my entire life has been like that. My family has a long history of it.”

G’kar nodded. “I thought you might. The subtle scent of living flowers is so hard to come by in space; they’ve been gone from my world for a very long time, of course, but I was intrigued by the aroma you carry with you. It’s amazing what a little curiosity and the station’s botanical database can tell you.”

Marcus shot him a long look, but didn’t respond.

“Not going to confirm it? Ah well. I suppose it will simply have to remain one of those great mysteries of the universe, like your Swedish Meatballs.”

“Quite,” Marcus agreed. “But I find the universe richer for having such mysteries, don’t you?”

“Oh, you know I do,” G’kar agreed happily. “Let me tell you another; many people in high places are attempting to put this one together, but I think they aren’t having much luck. What would you make of these pieces: a highly-placed, respected Minbari Warrior is challenged to a battle to the death by an equally respected human Ranger. Despite clearly being the victor, the Warrior lets the human live, and then proceeds to perform one of the oldest and most formal methods of regaining lost honour. He walks for a period of no less than six of their weeks in the shoes of the one he wronged, learning to see things as they do. And then, when his period of dishonour has come to an end, and he is free to rejoin his ship and resume his normal duties, he suddenly appears to be conspiring with someone he has always been known to dislike, resulting in the human he spared being assigned to stay with him.”

Marcus kept his face neutral. “I’d say that there are many more outside factors impacting this, and that what matters is their respected standing with their given military orders, if the intention is to form an alliance between those orders.”

“Ah, but is that the intention?” G’kar asked. “It’s all so very exciting. Plots within plots within plots; you never really know what the Minbari are thinking, of course.” He paused. “Well, perhaps you might, but the rest of us could never begin to. I’m not even sure the Minbari know what they’re thinking. For example, most of them seem to be in favour of this new – alliance, did you call it? – yes, a good word, alliance.”

“And those who aren’t?” Marcus asked, as they passed out of the official sector and into the rougher areas of the station. 

“Well, those are the interesting ones, of course,” G’kar admitted. “I wonder if they even know why they are objecting. Or what they are objecting to.” He gave Marcus an unreadable look. “Certain of the Warriors fear ‘contamination’, as they put it, but one can’t help but wonder what they feel will be contaminated.”

“The Minbari are a very traditional people. Perhaps those who object do so because this will go against traditions that have been in place since before the time of Valen. Worker and Priest have already taken up arms, both in the Rangers and on their own, to fight in a war the Warriors will not even admit is brewing. There’s bound to be some strain,” Marcus mused.

“Yes,” G’kar agreed. “And I would be very wary of walking into such strain. Everything has its breaking point. Good day, Marcus Cole.” G’kar left as suddenly as he had appeared.

Marcus didn’t really have time to ponder the meaning behind that rather circular conversation before another voice broke into his thoughts. 

“He was talking about Shakiri, the current Shai Alyt,” Neroon offered, coming out of the shadows of a nearby doorway. Marcus’ pike was at his throat before the second word was out of his mouth, but to his credit, Neroon neither flinched nor paused in his speech.

“It seems to be my day for cryptic conversation,” Marcus observed, collapsing the weapon. “What’s going on?”

“Shakiri has heard of this plan of Delenn’s, and he disapproves. There are meetings going on among the Elders right now, trying to determine if a human should be allowed onto one of our warships. Not that they can interfere; it is the right of the Alyt to crew his ship with whomever he deems worthy. There is also a small movement that disputes my right to command, in light of my recent dishonour and my evident friendship with you.”

“Will they try anything?” Marcus asked.

“Not directly. Not yet. But I fear we will have to put off our own plans for some time,” Neroon said apologetically.

“I never believed we would be able to court before this war is over, Neroon,” Marcus returned. “This isn’t a fairy story. No one’s going to come along and wave a magic wand, sending the Shadows back where they belong and changing your culture – or mine, though I’ve adopted yours by choice – so that we can marry and live happily ever after.”

“At least now, we will abide by tradition,” Neroon offered as a consolation. “Even if we had been introduced by a matchmaker, the period of reflection before we are permitted to officially announce anything is at least four months. The Warrior Caste considers a meeting in battle to be similar to an introduction by a matchmaker, but den’shah is no ordinary battle.”

Marcus chuckled. “Far be it from me to go against tradition.”

Neroon’s gaze sharpened. “We cannot,” he said, deadly serious. “Understand, Marcus, that given a choice I would court you according to both of our customs, to honour your family as well as my own. But if we are to have any hope of changing the minds of my people, we must honour their ways as exactly as we can. This will not be the kind of short Warrior courtship that many Minbari look down on my Caste for indulging in.”

Marcus shook his head. “I’ve already had this conversation with Lennier. You’re not the sort of man who would indulge in a quick courtship anyway, Neroon. The sort of man who would do that wouldn’t still be here. And I haven’t waited thirty-six years and put up with the jokes I get about it from other humans to rush headfirst into taking a lover now.”

Neroon smiled slightly. “Then we shall go forward one day at a time. First to battle with my Caste to gain support for a war they do not believe in, then to battle the Sher’shok Dum to create the future for all our people.”

Marcus stopped as they reached the door to his quarters. “And after we have created it, and my duty to the Rangers and my dead is finished, then perhaps we may create a future of our own.”

Neroon bowed to him. “I await the day.”

Marcus watched his retreating back until it turned a corner, then turned and entered his room, smiling at the rose that seemed to be more colourful today than usual. “Do you approve, Beauty?” he asked. “Or am I silly for thinking that you of all my ancestors might understand? Do you suppose my mother approves?”

A waft of scent blew past him, and he smiled. There was no wind on a space station, even one the size of Babylon 5.

***

Marcus met Lennier, Neroon, and a handful of Minbari guards at the entrance to the docking bay where the main shuttle from the Ingata was berthed. He could see, lining the way to the shuttle, a mixed guard of station personnel, volunteer Narns, and assorted Minbari who felt the need to be here in support of Delenn’s new initiative. At the end of what Marcus couldn’t help calling the gauntlet, the command and ambassadorial staff waited to wish them well.

“I don’t suppose running away would be considered an honourable solution?” Marcus asked, paling slightly at being the focus of that much attention. It made him profoundly twitchy; neither EFI nor the Rangers encouraged their members to be at all visible in the performance of their tasks, and he’d quite gotten out of the habit of having other people acknowledge him unless he wanted them to.

“Unfortunately not,” Lennier answered. Neroon just shook his head and started forward, with an air of getting it over with as quickly as possible wrapped around him over his cloak. Marcus and Lennier shrugged, and followed him.

“Safe journey, Alyt Neroon,” Sheridan offered as they drew even with the command staff. “And godspeed.”

Neroon blinked at the odd colloquialism, but nodded politely anyway. “Thank you, Captain. I hope if we ever meet again, it is in less trying times.” He brushed past the rest of those waiting without a word, and no one made any move to stop him. Lennier followed, pausing much more frequently to have a word with those who he had come to call friends during his time on the station, bowing low to Delenn, and even throwing off all decorum to hug Vir as he passed. 

Marcus followed behind, exchanging an equally quiet word with everyone. He was through the last of it and heading for the ramp when Kosh appeared out of the shadows, startling everyone present. Marcus paused, waiting to see what the Vorlon would do.

“The wood is yellow,” Kosh twinkled at him. 

Marcus blinked, and shared a confounded look with those who were close enough to have heard, but answered with the only thing that came to mind.

“Is this the path less travelled?” he asked, thankful he never forgot anything he read, no matter how obscure.

“Yes,” Kosh twinkled again, then nodded to him slightly and moved off again.

Marcus breathed a sigh of relief, and turned to the people he’d come to call his friends, some of the best he’d ever had in his life. “Well, the Vorlons have been cryptic at us; I’d say that makes the ceremony complete. I’ll be in touch.” He bowed, Minbari-fashion, and turned, walking up the ramp and into the ship. He didn’t look back.

***

Neroon led them off the shuttle and into the Ingata’s large docking bay. The walls were lined with members of the crew, and Marcus couldn’t read their facial expressions at all. He stood quietly beside Lennier, waiting to see how Neroon would handle this change in the orderly operation of his ship.

Four strange Minbari stepped forward from the gathered ranks. Two were fierce, bonecrests covered in spikes as only a pure-blood descendant of the Caste could have, every inch Warrior Caste. Marcus didn’t think they were pleased to see him. The other two obviously had Warrior blood, but one was dressed in the simple blue robes generally worn by Healers, and the other was in everyday Worker garb.

“Welcome back, Alyt Neroon. The Ingata has been too long without your command,” one of the Warriors said, her voice carrying powerfully in the cavernous space.

“I am sure you commanded well in my absence. I am pleased with the reports I received,” Neroon answered, before turning his attention to encompass the entire room. “Hear me, crew of the Ingata, members of my Clan! I have agreed to host two not of our Caste or Clan on this ship, to preserve the peace our people have enjoyed for a thousand years. I expect you to make them welcome, and to take every effort to learn about them, as they will be attempting to learn our ways. I believe we have much to teach each other. I know that our Shai Alyt has expressed his displeasure with this plan, although he has not given orders against it; any of you who are uncomfortable may depart the Ingata as soon as we reach Minbari space. No mark will be placed on your record for such an action.”

“With respect, Alyt,” one crewman called, “A mark might not go on our record, but it would go on our souls. We might not understand why you and the Shai Alyt disagree on this, but understanding has never been required. We follow where you lead, as we always have.”

The Warrior woman who had come forward to meet Neroon nodded. “Well spoken, if out of turn. We’re behind you, Neroon. May we welcome our new crewmembers?”

Some of the tension left Neroon’s shoulders, and he nodded. “This is Marcus Cole, one of the first humans to become a full Anla’Shok, who recently challenged me to den’shah and lived.” He waited for shocked murmurs to die down. “And this is Lennier of the Third Fane of Chu’domo, who has trained in the Tha’Domo order of the Religious Caste.” The murmurs at this were equally impressed, and Marcus hid a smile at Lennier’s obvious surprise.

“Make them welcome,” Neroon commanded, then dismissed the massed crew with a gesture. Marcus felt the ship begin moving as they trickled out the door. Only the four who had come to meet Neroon and a guard at the door stayed.

“Marcus, Lennier, I would like you to meet Siarann, my shok’na’li, who has been commanding the Ingata in my absence.” She bowed to them, and they returned the gesture.

“Haynwa, the chief Hela’mer of the Ingata. He is from the Worker Caste branch of my Clan.” They bowed, and the healer smiled at Marcus.

“You’ll be my first human patient, young man. I’ve had all of the files I hope to need transferred from your doctors on the station, but I’d love to talk with you at some point to learn what some of the information means. Not all of our anatomy or our medical practices are similar.”

Marcus smiled. “I’d be happy to, Hela’mer.”

“This is my aide Helacann, also from the Worker Caste,” Neroon continued, gesturing at the young Minbari who stood beside the Healer. Marcus couldn’t help but notice that as they bowed to each other, the young man’s eyes kept drifting up to peek at Lennier, although he was quick to catch himself and turn away. Marcus was glad; at the very least, he suspected the young priest would find a friend in Neroon’s aide.

“And finally, Calafenn, my faithful bodyguard, who no doubt has been most disgruntled by my prolonged absence.”

Calafenn smirked and nodded, bowing and gesturing for the guard by the door to come closer. “If you don’t mind, Alyt, I took the liberty of selecting one of our younger crewmembers to serve as a guide and aide to our guests. It was difficult to find someone fluent in Standard who didn’t have an important enough position to be needed elsewhere, but I managed. This is Siarhael, my cousin.”

The young man bowed low to his Alyt, then slightly more shallowly to the newcomers. “It is an honour to be chosen to serve,” he pronounced carefully.

“It is an honour to be served,” Marcus returned in the dialect of the Warrior Caste, smiling at the surprise on the faces of the Minbari he’d just been introduced to. 

“You speak Lenn’ah well,” Siarann commented. 

“Some of it, yes,” Marcus admitted. “I’ve had an excellent teacher. But I’m far better at Adronato and Fik. I hope to change that while I’m here.”

“I’m sure you’ll succeed. Siarhael can show you both to your rooms; we’ve given you a connected suite, since we understood that you were known to each other, but this can be changed if it is unsatisfactory?”

Marcus and Lennier hastily assured her that it would be just fine, and followed the young guide/aide – and also, Marcus suspected, both guard and spy – into the halls of the Ingata, the first Ranger and non-Clan priest to do so in a long time. As they left, Marcus shared a long look with Neroon; their days of private conversations and quiet moments had come to a very definite end.

Neroon watched as his – he wasn’t sure quite what to call Marcus, actually – exited the room, then turned to his second. 

“Now, tell me everything that wasn’t in your reports,” he commanded, pulling the mantle of Alyt back on as easily as if he hadn’t spent the past several weeks rewriting the most basic parts of his soul.

“There isn’t much to tell. The crew is a bit confused about our visitors, but are willing to accept them on your word until they’ve proved themselves. Most are even excited about interacting with fighters from a different path than the Warrior Caste; they hope it will improve their own skills. You have selected a fine crew for this ship, but you knew that already.” She paused. “Externally to the ship, I have heard worrying rumours. They say there is something lurking in hyperspace along the traderoutes, far from any standard patrol. At least three Worker Caste ships are missing; no one is saying it, but I believe we have to assume they are lost. I was ordered not to tell the crew anything by the Shai Alyt himself; Shakiri thinks that the Workers have simply gone off course, found a new market for their goods.”

Neroon frowned, troubled by the order as much as the missing ships. “That isn’t like them, but I suppose it is possible.” he shook his head. “Never mind. Where were the missing ships when they dropped of communications?”

“Sector 93,” Siarann answered swiftly. “Incidentally, our usual patrol route takes us into Sector 91 next week; should I tell the engineers to anticipate an engine malfunction that will force us to drift off course for that time?”

Neroon smiled. “I think so, yes. Are any other vessels scheduled to be taking that shipping route between now and our arrival?”

“Not before we get there, Alyt,” his aide Helacann offered, consulting a hand-held computer interface. “But the same day we’d arrive, there should be a mixed-species vessel carrying spice merchants passing through. Their crew roster lists Minbari, humans, Centauri, and a half-dozen groups from the Unaligned Worlds. We should intercept them as they pass out of the problem area.”

“Good.” Neroon led them out of the secluded docking bay, now that the sensitive conversation was coming to a close. “You know that we may encounter more than raiders, should there be trouble in that sector?” he asked them all.

“We’re prepared for that, Alyt,” Siarann assured him. “Whether we face raiders or the Ancient Enemy, We will perform our duty. The oaths I took when I chose the Warrior Caste say I am bound to protect all Minbari, regardless of Caste or Clan. The Shai Alyt has long been away from deep-space missions, and may have forgotten that out here, rumours may be all the warning you have, but we have not.”

“Well spoken, daughter,” the old Hela’mer, Haynwa, smiled at Neroon’s second, and the Alyt blessed his luck again that he’d been able to find such a solid crew for the Ingata, when he took her after Branmer’s death.

***

Marcus was surprised at how easy it had been to settle into the routine of life on the Ingata. Was also startled by how large a percentage of the crew wasn’t actually Warrior Caste; they were all Star Riders, but many of the aides, healers, engineers, and other support personnel were of the Worker Caste. It made for a more welcoming environment than he and Lennier had expected, and also gave them the opportunity to see Warriors and Workers interacting in a friendly fashion, something Marcus at least had never encountered before. 

He spent most of his day with Lennier. They ate in the common commissary with the rest of the crew, then spent their mornings touring various sections of the ship, speaking to those who worked there, sharing skills and stories. There was a surprising variety of experiences and life histories, even among the Warriors, and Marcus was enjoying himself like he never had before.

After the midday meal, they spent part of the afternoon with Neroon, trying to update him on everything the Babylon 5 command staff knew about the current situation, and listening to him go over what the Warrior Caste knew and was doing. The meetings were informative, and terrifying. Shakiri was in danger of setting his entire Caste up for execution, as near as Marcus could tell, although he kept many of his concerns about the man to himself. Neroon’s crew was tolerant, but a human accusing the Shai Alyt of the things Marcus feared would not be taken well. Marcus wasn’t sure even Neroon would listen to his concerns over Shakiri’s decisions, and so he kept quiet and watched, blessing his training for his ability to do so unobtrusively.

The only bright point to the meetings was his continual amusement at Neroon’s aide, who was alternately embarrassed and terrified in Lennier’s presence. Marcus didn’t think his young friend had noticed yet; he was still too bound up in what he had left behind. But it was only a matter of time; as Delenn got farther and farther away, and Lennier more comfortable with his place here, Marcus expected to see friendship grow between the two quiet, studious young men.

The rest of their afternoon was spent in the large training facility. It was composed of several rooms, including a sparring hall, a weapons range, an obstacle course at least as difficult as the one the Ranger trainees went through prior to graduation, something that resembled an old earth waterpark but which was interactive, containing surprises and traps Marcus couldn’t even begin to guess at yet, and a few other multi-purpose rooms. So far he and Lennier had spent the majority of their time in the sparring hall, going against each other at first, then gradually gaining other opponents as some of the younger Warriors got up the ambition to face their very different fighting styles. 

Marcus was gaining a new appreciation for the differences in their combat training; Lennier’s was almost entirely defensive, and barehanded, but the young priest had yet to be thrown even by seasoned Warriors wielding the denn’bok. Marcus’ own style was a blend of several human martial arts – he was a master of none, but he’d picked up moves as he went along over the years – and what he’d been taught by the Rangers. 

By Minbari standards, he fought dirty, dodging, leaping, and using whatever came to hand as a weapon. He’d completely astonished one of the young cadets on the fourth day, when he’d whipped him across the backside with a wet towel lying to the side of the ring, but the Warriors were smart enough to see where his anything-goes style held a distinct advantage. Their own style was, by contrast, fairly rigid; they relied almost entirely on ingrained forms. To their credit, those forms worked well against almost anything they would face, and they were all some of the most skilled opponents Marcus had ever had. Gradually, they were all picking up moves from each other, and if the smiles he’d seen on the faces of Neroon and his second when they stopped in to watch yesterday were any indication, they were well pleased with the beginning of their experiment.

After the evening meal, he and Lennier had persuaded Siarhael to tutor them in Lenn’ah, and they were progressing rapidly. The more they learned, the easier it was to communicate with the rest of the crew, and he expected that he would soon start seeing less of his friend as Lennier made friends with a number of the aides and cadets in his age group. Marcus wasn’t at all distressed by that thought; he was overjoyed, in fact, because in the week that they’d been onboard the Ingata, he’d been privy to a side of Lennier he’d thought the young priest had lost for good. Lennier might not realize it himself yet, but he was slowly emerging from the shell of his identity as Delenn’s aide, and as he showed more personality of his own, those around him responded eagerly. 

In fact, it was in furtherance of this goal that he’d left Lennier and an only mildly embarrassed Helacann deep in discussion of some obscure philosophical text they’d both read in school, and went in search of his own better half.

He found Neroon on the bridge, staring thoughtfully into the stellar display as his crew worked quietly and competently around him. Marcus at first thought Neroon was simply bored, but as he got closer, he could see the frown lines etched onto the Minbari’s face, and began to worry.

“What ails thee?” he asked softly, unconsciously slipping into his mother’s peculiarly antiquated dialect.

“Hmm?” Neroon inquired, turning his attention to the human.

Marcus shook his head. “Sorry, you wouldn’t know that expression. What’s wrong? You look like a man with a problem.”

Neroon nodded slowly. “You may wish to sit down. We are about to have an engine problem; the rest of the crew has been alerted. I assumed you would still be with Helacann, or I would have told you about it myself.”

Marcus smiled. “I felt like a bit of a third wheel, if you must know.”

Neroon shook his head. “You humans have the strangest expressions. What do wheels have to do with anything?”

“It means that they were getting along quite well by themselves, and I was entirely redundant. Like a third wheel on a device that only needs two, you see?”

Neroon nodded. “I do. Good; I am glad they are getting along. Helacann has few friends, more due to his own shyness than anything. I think Lennier will be kind to him, and maybe between them they will figure themselves out. Was I ever that young?” he asked, somewhat rhetorically.

Marcus snickered. “Yes. So was I, even though I’m years younger than either of them.”

“But comparatively older, Marcus. Comparatively older. It makes a difference, believe me.”

“I know. I also know that you just cleverly re-directed the conversation; why are we expecting an engine failure? Is something wrong with the ship?”

“No,” Neroon answered slowly, “If the engine fails, we can’t be blamed for drifting off-course into an area we’ve been ordered not to interfere in.”

“What’s going on?” Marcus asked, really worried now.

“Hopefully nothing. But we’ve lost contact with a couple of Worker Caste ships recently, and my second and I feel it to be worth investigating. Shakiri disagrees, so we’re going anyway. I truly don’t expect more than a band of raiders, Marcus. There will be a fight, but nothing the Ingata has not weathered competently before, and nothing I expect to cause undue problems now.”

As he finished speaking, Marcus felt the tell-tale ripple in the deck under his feet as they dropped back into normal space, followed by a slightly disorienting sense of spinning as the Ingata realigned herself and began to drift in a new direction entirely. The voice of Neroon’s chief engineer came over the intercom, far too calm for the sort of damage that should have occurred to the engines to cause this, and Marcus smiled. The man was a brilliant engineer, but a terrible actor. 

The navigator on duty was either better at pretending there was a real emergency, or hadn’t been informed of the deception. His tone had just the right amount of reassurance when he turned to address Neroon.

“On our current heading, we should intercept the merchant ship Daradi in three hours, Alyt. They’re equipped to offer assistance, should we require it.”

“Thank you,” Neroon smiled. “Keep us on as direct a heading for their course as you can.” He relaxed back into his seat and began tapping out messages to various departments. Marcus stayed where he was, sitting comfortably on the floor beside the Alyt’s chair, and used the time to meditate lightly. Whatever Neroon expected to encounter, Marcus had been a ranger and an Earth Force officer for too long to go into a battle assuming he knew anything at all about the outcome.

***

“We should have met them by now,” Siarann muttered anxiously. “Even if they were damaged and running, we’d have met them by now.” 

When the anticipated three hours had become four, and then five, Neroon had called an assembly of his senior staff, plus Marcus and Lennier. They sat around the conference table located in a room just off the bridge, going over every star chart onboard in an effort to figure out where the missing ship had gone.

“Alyt, I think we’ve found them,” the navigator’s voice startled them, echoing out of a console on the table. “We need you on the bridge.” His voice was tight with some emotion Marcus couldn’t even guess at.

They abandoned the conference room hastily, crowding onto the bridge. Neroon took his seat and called up the stellar display, and Marcus could immediately see the reason for the navigator’s unease. The ship hadn’t just been attacked, with an eye to stripping it of parts or valuables; it had been razed clean through. Only one race Marcus knew of dealt in this kind of wanton destruction without reason.

“Shadows,” he whispered, hand going automatically to the denn’bok at his belt. Beside him, Lennier tensed, while Neroon gave him a shrewd look.

“You’re certain?” the Alyt asked.

Marcus nodded. “The burn pattern matches their weapons. I’ve seen this kind of destruction before, on too many worlds.”

“Get me a telepath,” Neroon ordered. “I want that ship scanned for living minds.”

“Alyt, if I may?” Lennier cut in rapidly, continuing when Neroon gave him a nod. “The Sher’shok Dum leave a telepathic residue behind them. At best, scanning that way will be useless. At worst, it will drive the telepath into insanity or death. I do not think you care to take that risk. Scan with the ship’s equipment. Don’t risk a boarding party until you have a confirmed living being on the other ship; they probably left traps behind.”

Neroon blanched slightly, but belayed his order for a telepath. “Scan using ship’s equipment.”

“Nothing could have survived that,” Lennier murmured, staring at the wreckage.

“You’d be surprised,” Marcus murmured back. “All it takes is a small miracle to survive one of these attacks. I did.”

Lennier conceded the point.

“Alyt!” Siarann called from the science console. “I think there’s a survivor! Only one, and very faint. You see where the hull is crumpled in on the side of that large chunk there?”

Neroon looked. “I see it.”

“I think it collapsed in such a way that it trapped an air pocket. But we don’t have much time; whoever’s in there can’t have much air left.”

“Form a boarding party, and power up shuttle five; it should still be equipped with rescue equipment. Siarann, you have the bridge.”

“Alyt, I must protest. Your place is with the ship.”

“My place is with the boarding party; this is a new enemy, and I must be able to report to the council of Elders and the Shai Alyt. Marcus, Lennier, Calafenn, with me.” He rose and stormed off the bridge, the others scrambling to catch the lift down to the shuttle bay. 

They met a small band of Warriors and Haynwa. Neroon glared at the healer, but didn’t object to his presence. They suited up in environmental gear, Haynwa adjusting the controls on one of the suits so Marcus would be comfortable, then boarded the shuttle. No time was wasted as they took off quickly, the pilot taking them confidently through the debris field and latching onto the hull of the destroyed trader ship far enough away from the life reading Siarann had picked up that they should be able to cut into the ship without destroying the air supply.

Marcus joined Lennier at the back of the party as they sliced through the last of the hull, following the Warriors into the ghost ship. The corridor they emerged into was lit by flickering emergency lighting, a generator somewhere still functioning despite the damage. Bulkheads had crumpled all along the area Marcus could see, and loose hose and wiring dangled from the ceiling. Their movements were slow, hampered by the deck plating that had rippled and shifted in the attack. The lights they’d brought illuminated the grim damage, and Marcus did his best to stay between Lennier and the bodies that littered some of the rooms they passed. The Warriors and he were well used to such sights, but Lennier had never been in a situation like this before. The young priest’s eyes were a little wild, and his skin looked paler than usual under the facemask, but it might have just been the light.

“Here,” Calafenn called from the point position, pausing by a miraculously intact doorway. This has to be it.”

“Weapons out. Hope that there is a survivor, but expect that there is an enemy laying in wait,” Neroon commanded, and there was a resounding snick as ten denn’boks extended nearly simultaneously. Marcus pulled a dagger as well, and he noticed a couple of Warriors gripping their pikes in one hand and energy weapons in the other. Lennier, who fought barehanded, carried a spare breathing unit. He moved up behind Calafenn to be the first into the room, and Marcus smiled to see the respect the Warriors offered him as he slipped into place.

“Open it,” Neroon ordered, and they all stood back as Calafenn quickly wrenched the manual override on the door. A hiss of air rushed past them as the door opened, confirming their guess about this being the right location. Lennier dropped low to the ground and scuttle through the door as the Warriors behind him leaped into the room, weapons drawn. Marcus was one of the last in, and he could see upon entering that there were no traps laid. A female Minbari lay to one side of the room, impaled on debris and quite obviously dead. At her feet, hidden behind massive storage cartons, Lennier was securing the mask over a small form. He looked up at them as he finished.

“She can’t be more than six or seven cycles old,” he said, his eyes haunted. “And she’s terrified, she keeps trying to get away from me.”

Marcus did some quick mental figuring, and guessed the child to be the physical equivalent of a human child of eight, but the mental equivalent of one closer to five; the Minbari lived longer, but matured slower. He slipped forward as the Warriors stood down slightly.

“It’s your bonecrest,” he said quietly, seeing the shadow Lennier cast from the girl’s perspective. “The Sher’shok Dum are spiny; you’re casting a shadow on the wall, and she probably thinks they’ve come back. Let me try.”

Lennier stood up quickly, moving back far enough that his shadow resolved into a normal Minbari form. Marcus knelt where he had been, looking down at the bruised little form cowering in the corner

“Hello,” he said softly in the Worker Caste dialect. He wasn’t quite fluent, but he hoped he could at least communicate with a child.

Big, terrified brown eyes stared up at him, and she tried to push herself farther into the bulkhead.

“My name is Marcus,” he continued, using the soft voice he’d often used to soothe Will’s nightmares when they were children. “I’m a human. What’s your name?”

She shook her head, and Marcus was very glad Lennier had been able to secure the breathing mask before she’d panicked at having him so close to her. 

“Please?” he asked. “I’d like to be friends, but we can’t be friends if you don’t tell me your name.”

She stopped pushing herself into the bulkhead, but didn’t come any farther towards him. “Fara,” she whispered, hugging herself. As she stopped shrinking back from him, he could see the small, still-forming bonecrest that must’ve protected her from a skull fracture; there were livid bruises around it, covering the cerulean markings that would normally tell him something about how healthy she was, but her eyes were focusing all right.

“Well, Fara, do you want to come out of there? We have a shuttle waiting, and we need to get you somewhere safe.”

She shook her head. “Mama said not to move.”

Marcus looked behind him to the woman’s body, hidden from the child’s view, and remembered one too many conversations with Will, trying to make the younger boy understand that their mother had gone up to Heaven and wouldn’t ever come to comfort him again. 

“Your mama had to go away for a while,” he said this time, unsure what the Minbari usually told their children in such a situation. “I’m going to take you to a Hela’mer, is that okay?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Mama said Hela’mers are good people if I’m in trouble.”

Marcus held out his arms, and she surged into them, burying her face against his shoulder. He made soothing noises as he stood up, turning to face Neroon and the other Warriors. 

“I need to get her back to the ship. You should search around, see if you can find out who her parents were. If any of the Shadows died here, they’ll have disintegrated already, but there may be something you can use to bring to Shakiri as evidence of their presence.”

Neroon nodded. “Go. Get her to Haynwa. We can search here quite well on our own. If she doesn’t need the medlab immediately, have the shuttle wait for us; if she does, send it back once you’ve safely reached the Ingata.”

Marcus nodded, his eyes meeting Neroon’s for a long moment and extracting a promise that his heart would be careful before he made his careful way back along the corridor they’d entered by, two guards flanking him and helping watch where he was going, since he couldn’t see in front of him very well. 

Haynwa looked shocked when Marcus made his way back onto the shuttle through the cycling airlock, but got over it quickly, pulling out his medical kit and running implements Marcus had no name for over the girl. 

“Who have we here?” he asked gently, eyes twinkling at the little girl. 

One eye peeked up out of Marcus’ tunic, before hiding again.

“This is my new friend Fara,” Marcus offered, keeping a strong hold on her. “She’s a little shy. Sweetie, this is Haynwa, the chief Hela’mer from our ship. Can he make sure you aren’t hurt badly?”

A hesitant nod answered him, and he set her down carefully on one of the seats, keeping hold of her hand when she made a distressed sound. Haynwa went to work immediately, running gentle hands over her limbs and specialized instruments over anyplace that elicited a sound of pain. 

“Well, my dear,” Haynwa smiled. “I’d say you’re a very lucky young lady. You’re one big bruise right now, but that’s all. I’m going to give you something, and I want you to drink it all down, all right?” he got a tiny nod, and gave her a cup full of something he pulled out of his kit. She gulped it down, making none of the faces Marcus associated with small children and medication. Within moments she was yawning, and cuddled up to Marcus’ side for warmth as her eyes slid shut. One little thumb came up to find her mouth, and Marcus contorted himself a bit to pull out of his cloak, covering her with it before looking up at the Healer.

“She’s really all right?” he asked.

“Quite remarkably so, yes. I suspect she was asleep when the attack came; her injuries are more consistent with falling that with being thrown into anything.”

“I think her mother may have been carrying her to an escape pod when the section they were in was hit; we found her body not too far from the girl. She probably only had time to toss her into the safest place she could find before being pinned by the wreckage.”

“That fits her injuries,” Haynwa agreed. “How long will the rest of them be, do you think?” 

“Not sure,” Marcus admitted. “It depends on what they find. They were going to look for anything that might have been left that they could bring to Shakiri. I’m not sure what they’ll find. Shadows disintegrate when they’re killed.”

“They may leave something behind, you never know.” The healer packed his kit up. “As long as they’re not likely to come back needing my services?”

Marcus began shaking his head, but they were interrupted by a bone-chilling screech that went on and on. Haynwa clapped hands to his ears, and Fara twitched in her drugged sleep, but Marcus just closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Plugging his ears wouldn’t do any good; the sound was as much mental as auditory, and there was no way to cut it off. He stumbled up to the control panel, scanning space around them as the pilot fired up the shuttle in preparation for a quick getaway.

“I can’t see the ship!” Marcus cursed. “Do you see any anomalies? Black spaces where there should be stars? Anything?”

“No, Anla’Shok,” the pilot answered, cringing. “What is that?”

“That’s the sound made by the Sher’shok Dum,” Marcus answered coldly, opening a channel to the Ingata. “Siarann, we can hear Shadows, but we can’t see them, do you have anything?”

“There was a spike of some kind of energy on the Daradi a moment ago; we can’t read anything now, and we can’t hear anything either.”

“Valen’s name!” Marcus swore. “It was a trap all along. Haynwa, stay with her! Keep this shuttle powered up!” He vaulted back over to the airlock, cycling through it faster than was really safe, and charged down the hallways, his guards in close attendance behind him. As they passed the room they’d found Fara in the sounds of pikes striking bulkheads grew clearer, giving them a direction. 

They burst into what remained of the bridge in time to see Calafenn go sailing past them, slamming into the wall and sliding down it with a shout of pain. Further into the room Neroon was locked in a fierce contest with a single Shadow, his denn’bok barely making an impression on the thing’s spiky hide. Two of the Warriors were on the floor, injured but alive, and past them the rest engaged two more Shadows, with no more success than Neroon was having. Further in still, Lennier was trading blows with a Centauri and two Minbari; Marcus could tell by the darkness radiating from them that he was looking at Shadow Servants, worse than corpses. Walking dead who did their master’s bidding without question. 

Marcus held out a hand to stop the Warriors with him from joining the battle. He pulled a PPG he’d stolen from the Babylon 5 stores out of a hidden pocket on his uniform. “You can’t hurt them with your denn’boks. They only respond to energy weapons. Find some and shoot!” He suited action to words, opening fire on the Shadow that was slowly driving Neroon back across the floor towards the gaping hole where the front viewscreen should have been. 

“Not again!” He shouted, emptying the PPG clip into the thing and loading another one without thought. “You will not take anything more from me, you bastards!” 

The rest of the Warriors seemed to pick up on the idea, and more shots rang out from various positions around the room. The Shadows began to flicker and fade, screaming as they vanished. Marcus doubted they were dead, but for now the battle had been won. A crash caught his attention, and he snapped his head around, realizing that while they’d been concerned with the Shadows, Lennier’s battle with their Servants had gone unaided. The crash had been the sound of one of the other Minbari being knocked over a chair into a console.

Warriors quickly swarmed the fight, and Marcus waited until he was sure they had things well in hand before turning his attention to Neroon. 

“Are you uninjured?” he asked, his eyes scanning the Alyt quickly, lingering longest on the other man’s face. He’d never before gone into battle with someone he loved this much also in danger. 

“Yes,” Neroon answered, eyes doing a quick check of his own. “Thanks to you. The girl?”

“Bruised, but Haynwa says she’ll be fine,” Marcus informed him quietly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the last of the Servants fall, his head caved in from a pike blow. The Warriors regrouped, many of them bowing deeply to Lennier as they passed him. The young priest was breathing heavily, and limped a little as he joined them at the door. 

“You all right?” Marcus asked his friend as they wound their way back to the shuttle. 

“I will heal,” Lennier confirmed. “They knew we’d come. We need to have a telepath check the girl over; I didn’t sense tampering, but she may have been used by them.”

Marcus sighed. “I hope not. It’s hard enough being the only survivor of something like this.”

They reached the shuttle quickly, and as soon as they were all aboard Neroon ordered their return to the Ingata. They were met in the docking bay by a team of healers and the command staff that had stayed behind. The healers took charge of Fara, the wounded Warriors, and Lennier, whisking them off to medlab while Siarann accosted her Alyt. A corner of Marcus’ mind noticed the concerned glance young Helacann sent after Lennier.

“He’ll be all right,” Marcus said quietly to Neroon’s aide, while Neroon and Siarann went over the details of the attack.

“I-I don’t know what you mean, Anla’Shok,” Helacann stammered.

“Lennier. He’ll be fine; just a bit of a sprain. You looked concerned.” Marcus smiled when the young man flushed at that observation.

“I -”

“You don’t need to say anything, Helacann,” Marcus assured him. “It’s just an observation.”

The aide nodded, and Marcus stood quietly with him, waiting for Neroon and Siarann to wrap up their conference. 

***

“We need to figure out what to do about Fara,” Haynwa opened their meeting just over a week later. They were well on their way back to Minbar, perhaps two or three days out yet. The entire crew was on edge; a meeting of the council of Elders had been called, and everyone on board knew that there would be questions about their actions aboard the Daradi.

“What do you mean?” Siarann asked. “I thought she was getting better.”

“Oh, as far as health goes, she’s fine. She’s having some nightmares, but nothing out of the norm for a child who survived what she did. The problem lies with the records. You know that those who crew the mixed-species ships are looked down on; often they’re cut off from their families for such a decision. We’ve been looking, and sent enquiries to the library in Yed’oore, but we can’t track down her family. We can’t even say for sure which Caste she belongs to; most likely Worker, but she could be Religious. And Fara is such a common name for our young girls, there’s simply no way to tell. Blood tests haven’t even turned up anything; her blood was never registered with the library, also common with the deep-space traders. There wasn’t anything nearby on the ship that could help us, and we couldn’t stay around long enough to positively identify her mother. If the woman with her was her mother, and not just a member of the larger group that would have been taking care of her.”

“So she’s Clanless?” Helacann asked. “Poor girl!”

“Indeed. So I ask again, what will we do about her?”

“The Star Riders will take her,” Neroon assured. “She’s welcome to remain on the Ingata; we certainly have the space. There are only five children with us at the moment.”

“You keep children on a warship?” Marcus asked. Somehow he’d missed that detail.

“It wouldn’t be fair to ground Warriors from active service until their children were grown. We have several mated pairs aboard, and a well-appointed children’s area. You probably missed it; it’s back behind the engine room, in the most heavily shielded section of the ship. The entire area is designed to operate as a self-contained unit, in the event of a hull breach. We don’t put them at any risk we can avoid, but they are children of the Warrior Caste, and we won’t shelter them from Caste business.”

“They have to be more than ten cycles old, though,” Siarann interrupted. “We don’t let children younger than that aboard, generally, unless they belong to high-ranked officers who can’t be spared until they’re a little older. And we do try and make sure the couples with children are rotated off of ship duty more frequently, so their children have an equal chance to experience life on a warship and life planetside.”

“That’s quite different. Humans would never put a child on a warship, but then, our ships are less our homes, and more military duty postings. I imagine there are personnel on stations like Babylon 5 who have children, though.”

“But for you, being a soldier is an occupation,” Lennier pointed out. “For the Warrior Caste, it is their life. Their families and traditions all revolve around ties to the Clan, and to their duty.”

“Well said. But it still doesn’t solve the problem,” Haynwa interrupted them. “Fine, the Star Riders adopt the girl. But she needs parents as much as she needs a Clan, Neroon, and there’s no couple on the ship with the resources or the time to take on a child as damaged as that. You know our children need to grow up as part of a unit, and when that unit is broken, they need extra attention from their new parents to help them integrate into a new one. Few of the adults on this ship would know what to do with a child who needed that kind of extra care, frankly. And if we arrive on Minbar with this unsorted, it will turn into a nightmare of bureaucracy. Fara doesn’t deserve to be put through that.”

“Then I will take her myself,” Neroon stated. 

“Alyt, are you sure? You don’t know much about raising children,” Siarann pointed out, humour twinkling in her eyes. Marcus wondered what the joke was.

“I’ll have help,” Neroon growled. “Besides, she seems to have latched on to Marcus; this way she can spend time around him without anyone accusing him of stealing a Minbari child. Human children, as I understand it, are far more attached to their parents than ours are, so the amount of care she needs might seem less strange to him. I think it’s the best solution.” He met Marcus’ eyes seriously, both begging forgiveness for speaking for them both and pleading with Marcus not to argue.

Marcus, for his part, was stunned. Had Neroon really just suggested that they adopt a daughter? Granted, she would legally be Neroon’s, and no one knew yet that he’d soon be part of the Alyt’s family. One word from him, he knew, and Neroon would find another couple to take the child.

He thought of Fara’s frightened brown eyes, her shy smile, and the stuffed mebel the healers had found that she liked to hold long, babbling conversations with. It was no decision at all. He gave a small nod, and Neroon’s face relaxed slightly.

“Sorted, then. Will you see to having the adoption entered into the library archives when we’re finished here, Helacann?” 

The aide nodded. “And may I say congratulations, Alyt? No disrespect to your parents or your sister, but it is good to see you taking some thought to a family of your own.”

“Indeed. Now,” Siarann continued the meeting, “We need to discuss the next few days. The Shai Alyt won’t be happy that we’re reporting the return of the Sher’shok Dum; his official position is that the Religious Caste is trying to cause a panic. This will make him look weak.”

“Is there any way to present our evidence that might make it easier for him to accept?” Marcus inquired.

“I hope so,” Neroon answered, before his officers could give suggestions. “I think, if we present it as though we had no idea we would end up in battle, then it becomes a chance encounter. He may then say that he now has proof, where before he had only rumours, and he will now act. But that is only if he believes us.”

“Be careful, Neroon,” Marcus advised softly. “Cornered animals are the most dangerous. If he believes you are undermining him and he has nothing to lose, there’s no predicting what he’ll do.”

“Good advice,” Siarann remarked. “We all know no member of this crew would betray the Caste or the Shai Alyt. But that may not be how our actions appear to others.”

“Our first goal should be to meet with the Elders of the Star Riders,” Haynwa advised. “Only after that will we know what to expect from the other Clans.”

“All right, we’ll land at the Star Riders estate,” Neroon decided. “Until then, I’m issuing a ship-wide order; everyone is to be in top condition, and their armour and weapons are to be repaired. We won’t walk into this situation, whatever it is, looking like we’ve just been on a year-long tour on the rim of Minbari space. Even if we have been.”

***

Marcus was awed by the Star Riders estate. He thought he’d seen the wonders of Minbar during his training in Tuzan’oore and Yed’oore, but this estate, more of a compound, was located in the foothills of the northern continent. The crystal was paler than that found in the south, making it look like the pictures in his childhood storybooks of the castle of the Ice Queen. It was beautiful, the sun hitting it and making rainbows in the air. In the south, the crystal itself was so coloured that the light it gave off was naturally tinted; up here, the light sparkled the way it would off of diamonds, or new-fallen snow. Marcus fell in love with it at first sight, and he could tell by the awed gasp from over his head that he wasn’t the only one.

“Pretty!” Fara exclaimed, wriggling excitedly on her perch on Marcus’ shoulders. Marcus reflected that she’d probably never seen anything like it. Past the glittering fortress the mountains rose, taller than anything on earth, covered in thick dark-green growth. The Minbari version of coniferous trees gave off a pleasantly spicy scent at this time of year, and the warm air was full of it. Grass rolled out before them to the edge of the forest, dotted with bushes and trees, speckled all over with tiny wildflowers. Insects buzzed back and forth, and in the distance he could see birds wheeling over what must have been an updraft of prodigious proportions. It was the closest thing to heaven Marcus had ever seen.

Neroon smiled at both of them. “I hoped you’d like it, daughter,” he said quietly, but his eyes caught Marcus’ and expressed a different sentiment entirely. This is your home, they said to the lone human. Marcus smiled back at his not-yet-fiancé, trying to convey how very enchanted he was with this place, and how very much he hoped to grow old here in this sunlit mountain valley with Neroon by his side.

A welcoming committee waited at the gates to the compound. Marcus figured most of them to be guards, Warriors permanently assigned to the ancestral home of the Star Riders, a mostly ceremonial position for the retired, those with very small children, and those recovering from long-term injuries. The few who weren’t dressed in simple household armour were the ones who held his attention. One couple looked enough like Neroon that they could only be his famous parents, further confirmed by the woman’s Religious robes and the impish young woman in Worker Caste clothing with a smudge of flour on one cheek who stood just behind them. 

Next to them, stooped with age, stood a woman wearing the large Clan crest that marked her as the Elder of the Clan. Marcus knew from their long conversations on Babylon 5 that she was also Neroon’s formidable great-aunt, the Clan matriarch and possibly the person he respected most in the universe. She was surrounded by several other older Minbari, and Marcus guessed them to be the council of Elders who governed the internal workings of the Star Riders. He was impressed; it was a high-ranking welcome party. Then again, Neroon was the Alyt of the Star Rider’s best Sharlin-class warship, and had been Satai. Not to mention Aalann’s heir; in time he would sit with these Elders to govern the Clan. He was also embroiled in controversy at the moment. The Elders would leave nothing to chance.

“Aunt Aalann,” Neroon greeted the stooped old woman. “Honoured Elders. Mother, father, sister,” he bowed to them as he addressed them, followed a beat later by the officers who stood with him. Most of the crew had already disbanded to other parts of the Clan lands. Marcus and Lennier also bowed, Marcus shallowly and carefully to avoid dislodging his passenger.

“Nephew,” Aalann greeted him acerbically. “You can’t call to tell us you’re an idiot? We have to hear it from whispers and rumours?”

Neroon had the grace to blush. “I wasn’t thinking, Aunt. I’m sorry.”

“Hmmph,” she snorted. “You should be. Welcome home, Siarann, Calafenn. Still no children?” 

The two Warriors hid behind Neroon, and Marcus blinked in surprise. He’d had no idea they were married. From the look on Lennier’s face, neither had he, so at least Marcus couldn’t feel as if he’d missed clues that would’ve been obvious to another Minbari.

“Siarhael. I see you’ve moved up in the ranks,” Aalann continued, giving the aide assigned to Marcus and Lennier a piercing stare. “Good. Helacann, stand up straight, you look like you’re trying to shrink into a mouse. Haynwa, are you still throwing in with this disreputable lot?”

The old healer chuckled, and bowed low to her. “As ever, Elder. They get into such interesting scrapes.”

Aalann snorted again. “I suppose there is that. I see new faces, though.” She moved closer to Neroon to get a better look at all of them, whacking him across the shins with her walking stick.

“Introduce us, nephew. I haven’t got all day.”

Neroon winced, but bowed again. “Of course, Aunt. May I present Lennier of the Third Fane of Chu’domo, a disciple of the Tha’Domo order of the Religious Caste, who has joined my crew to help bridge the gaps in understanding between us?”

Lennier bowed low. “It is an honour to meet you, Elder Aalann. Your reputation is well known among the Tha’Domo. Dr’aal Selier still speaks of you.”

Aalann grinned suddenly. “I should hope so. Pompous old windbag thought he knew more about dirty fighting than a Clan matriarch of the Warrior Caste!”

Lennier cleared his throat, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “I have no doubt that he learned his lesson quite sufficiently.”

Aalann nodded imperiously, and gestured for her nephew to continue. Neroon had to take a moment to compose himself before doing so.

“This is Marcus Cole, one of the human Anla’Shok. He has also been serving aboard the Ingata, to exchange fighting styles and other knowledge.”

Aalann’s eyebrow ridges went up, but she made no other comment, gesturing impatiently for the next introduction. Marcus imagined Neroon would be quite thoroughly interrogated later, in a private setting.

“And this,” Neroon finished with a smile, “Is the newest Star Rider; my adopted daughter Fara.”

Aalann stumped over to Marcus and peered up at the small face trying to hide in his hair. “You’re small for a Warrior,” she grumped, “But I suppose you’ll do.”

The girl looked down into twinkling eyes set amidst lines grooved deep from years of smiles and frowns, and slowly began to smile back. Aalann nodded, and stumped back to her spot in the line, thwacking Neroon again as she passed him.

“I welcome you to the home of the Star Riders Clan. I extend to you guest-right; while you remain, the Star Riders shall be as your own Clan, to stand behind and beside you, whatever you face. Trust our strength to guard you that you may rest here in peace, but lift your arm in our defence if we should ask it.” She bowed low to them all, then turned and led the way through the immense formal gates and into the main building. The other Elders and the crew of the Ingata followed her, leaving only Marcus, his extra limbs, Lennier, Neroon, and Neroon’s family. 

“Did she just -” Marcus asked Lennier, a little bit stunned.

“Offer us a formal and binding Clan-adoption as part of her welcome?” Lennier finished for him. “The Star Riders are one of our oldest Clans. They follow the old ways, from before the time of Valen. We are now Star Riders, for as long as we remain here. Congratulations, Marcus.” He smiled slightly. “Although by tradition any humans training as Anla’Shok are nominally Minbari, you are the first of your race to ever be formally admitted into a Clan.”

Marcus’ eyes grew wide. “Lennier, what will this mean, for -” he cut himself off again, but sent a speaking look in Neroon’s direction.

“Ah,” Lennier murmured. “Very little. The Alien Prohibition took guest-right into account. But it may, possibly, give you a wider base of support.”

Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. “I don’t want to do anything that will jeopardize what we’re trying to build. I suppose I’m worrying over nothing.” 

“You are creating a path of your own, outside of anything any of our people have done before. I think a little worry is reasonable,” Lennier advised.

“What about you?” Marcus asked, uncomfortable discussing his private life so openly, even if the only people who could possibly hear them were Neroon’s family, who were wrapped up in welcoming their son.

“What about me?” Lennier returned.

“Are you happy?” Marcus asked.

“I miss Babylon 5,” Lennier admitted. “There were aspects of my life there that were very pleasant. But the past weeks, serving as part of a working crew, my own expertise and knowledge used to build something good, have been very satisfying.” He paused. “I am… confused, and thoughtful. I believe I will meditate often while we are here; this is a beautiful region of Minbar, and Helacann has offered to show me some of the nearby sights.”

Marcus smiled, secretly delighted by his friend’s answer. There was a lightness in Lennier’s eyes and voice, too, which had been absent on the station. Lennier had never fit among the legends that walked the halls there any more than Marcus had, and the time on the Ingata had only cemented that thought in his mind. The fire of their determination to change the universe burned bright and hot, but it scorched those who stood too close to them, those whose duty it was to see that the universe kept on running as they toyed with it.

“Hello,” a voice broke into his thoughts, speaking heavily accented standard. Marcus had been communicating only in one of the Minbari dialects, even with Neroon and Lennier, for so many weeks that the switch in languages startled him.

“Hello,” he returned. “Standard is not necessary,” he offered in Lenn’ah, and smiled at the look of relief on the young woman’s face.

“I am glad. I didn’t study it as much as I should have in school. I am Ardiri, Neroon’s sister.”

Marcus chuckled. “I guessed as much.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Why? I hope we don’t look much alike?”

Marcus laughed outright. He couldn’t fault the sentiment; the features he found both beautiful and compelling on Neroon would be harsh on a woman’s face. “No. This gave you away,” he answered, gesturing at her cheek but not touching her.

“Oh!” She quickly raised a hand and wiped the flour off. “Oh, Aunt Aalann is going to lecture me, I just know it! But it’s so hard to get all of it off, and I’m just going to get covered again before dinner, so I don’t see the point. Your passenger appears to have fallen asleep, by the way.”

Marcus tilted his head up, and chuckled, seeing the little face scrunched up in dreams. “Let her. She’s had a rough time.”

“I can imagine. Poor thing. I have just the cure, though. Everything’s better with cookies!” she bowed to them quickly, then dashed off into the building.

“Cookies?” Marcus turned to Lennier. “Minbari bake cookies?” 

Lennier chuckled. “Not quite what you’re thinking of. They’re made from rock sugar, flour, and a kind of flavoured paste. Something like… sugar cookies, I think you call them? But not quite.” 

Marcus shook his head. “You learn something new every day.”

“And when you stop doing so, you’re dead,” A deep voice broke in, remarkably similar in timber to Neroon’s.

Marcus bowed low. “You must be Nerlin,” he said. “It is an honour to meet you, sir. Your son speaks highly of you.”

Nerlin of the Star Riders returned the bow. “He speaks highly of you also, Anla’Shok. He has not told us the means of your meeting, but he says he is impressed with you as a Warrior, and coming from my son, I know this means more than just your skill with a denn’bok.”

“Father,” Neroon grumbled, clearly embarrassed. It amused Marcus greatly to see the usually over-confident Satai turned into a blushing adolescent by his family. It was a side to Neroon he hadn’t expected, and he was charmed by it.

“Hush, son. Now, tell me, Anla’Shok, how did you meet my son? And why is – forgive me – a torrbari serving aboard a Star Riders cruiser?”

Marcus met Neroon’s eyes carefully. “We met in battle, Nerlin. As to why I am serving aboard your son’s ship, that has to do with politics.”

Nerlin was about to ask further, but his wife stepped in.

“Politics must never be discussed before the guest-rights are observed, mala,” she pointed out gently. “Come, Marcus. I’ll show you and Lennier to the guest wing. Neroon, will you take your daughter? I wish to get to know her better.”

Neroon smiled, but shook his head. “She’s comfortable with Marcus, and I’d rather not disturb her more than I have to for a little while yet. I will get settled back in and see that her things are placed in an appropriate room, and perhaps after she has had a good night’s rest there will be time to play together.”

Neroon’s mother smiled. “Wise. Poor thing. We’ll see she is happy here, son, don’t worry. I’ve had the family nursery opened again, so her things may go there. Come, Anla’Shok, Tha’Domo. This way, please.”

Marcus again shared a long look with Neroon as they were separated, wondering how long it would be before he was free to remain where his heart called him to be, by the side of the Minbari who had stolen it.

Neroon’s eyes conveyed the same question, before his attention was caught again by his father.

“In battle?” Nerlin asked, when his wife had led their visitors and his new granddaughter out of earshot. “Walk with me, son.”

Neroon sighed, wishing for nothing more than his bed and maybe a quiet discussion with Marcus in the cool Minbar evening, but it wasn’t going to come any time soon. 

“I will tell you what we have heard,” Nerlin continued, as they stepped into one of the Clan gardens and began a leisurely walk along old and well-remembered paths. “We have heard that you broke Valen’s Ban, that you threatened the life of another Minbari. We have heard that you first attempted to kill and then befriended a human Anla’Shok – I assume the one who is now a guest of our Clan. We have heard that you carried out your time of dishonour and returned to your ship a changed man, more like the Neroon I knew when you were young, before the war changed everything. We have heard that you support the Religious Caste and their agendas over the good of your own Caste and Clan.”

Nerlin held his hand up to stop Neroon interrupting. “I’m not finished. That is what we have heard. Now I will tell you what the Star Riders believe. We believe that Valen’s Ban is crumbling, whether by your hand or the hand of another. We believe that however you dishonoured yourself, you have redeemed yourself equally, or you would not still be Alyt of the Ingata. We believe that the Warrior Caste has altered much in recent years; once there was no talk of Caste agendas, only of the good of all Minbari. We are an old Clan, and a small one, and the others no longer respect the ancient traditions as we do.

“Now, I want you to tell me what the truth is,” Nerlin finished. “And I want the entire truth. I will swear myself to silence on this conversation; after it is finished, it will be as if it never happened, unless you wish otherwise. But your eyes are still troubled, and I can see the cares of the past few months weighing heavier on you that the cares of the decade since the war.”

“It’s been a long time since I came to confide my heart to you,” Neroon admitted slowly, thoughts sorting themselves out in his head.

“Yes. I wonder now if I shouldn’t have pushed harder for you to do so. I think you could have used advice from your father and perhaps did not get it, because I was too concerned with my grief over your poor sister on the Dralafi and then with the Clan here. By the time I remembered that I had a son who suffered equally, but had no one to lean on to halve the burden, you were Satai. And what father, no matter how he loves his son, can ever feel comfortable reprimanding a Satai? For this, I ask your forgiveness.”

Neroon shook his head. “I do not believe you need to apologize, but I forgive you, if you need me to.” He frowned as his thoughts sorted themselves into something mostly coherent. “Perhaps more fathers should feel comfortable reprimanding those of high rank. I think it would solve some of our problems. Do you know why we surrendered, to the humans, when we could have destroyed them?”

Nerlin shook his head. “The entire war is a stain upon the honour of this Caste; that we fought an enemy who had no hope of fighting back is bad enough, but to push them to the edge of extinction was unforgivable. My heart wishes that the reason for our surrender was that sanity returned to our people, but I see from recent events that it has not. The only other explanation is that they discovered something, something that made our killing of the humans worse than surrender. And the only thing I can think of is that the humans fall under Valen’s Ban.”

Neroon nodded. “How many of our people have put that together?”

“More than you’d think. Oh, no one will say anything, or even admit to thinking it until our leaders step forward and tell them to. But there are not many who will be shocked when that finally occurs,” Nerlin said. “Given how bloody our people can be in the pursuit of vengeance, nothing but the Ban could have stopped it. Nothing but the Ban ever has. So, the question becomes; how exactly do the humans fall under Valen’s Ban?”

“They have Minbari souls,” Neroon admitted. “Not all of them. But some. Enough, to make it impossible for the killing to continue. There are things I cannot tell you, things I am bound to silence about, but if the killing had continued, we would have destroyed not only the humans, but ourselves as well.” 

It was true, Neroon realized, the thoughts he’d been struggling with since attending Marcus’ religious ceremony crystallizing for the first time. If they’d chosen another fighter to bring aboard, if any one single thing had gone differently in the Battle of the Line, then Jeffrey Sinclair would have died in his fighter, facing the Minbari fleet. He would never have learned their ways, never have commanded Babylon 5, and never returned to the past to become Valen and lead the Minbari into victory against the Shadows. He had opened the bridge for Minbari souls to cross the stars; Delenn had closed it, by reversing the transformation he had undergone. She was the last piece of the puzzle. And he had almost killed her. He had almost broken the last link in the chain that connected his people and the humans, a chain forged over a thousand years and countless miles between the stars, quenched in blood and pain and the hope of a better future. The thought made him sick.

“Are you all right?” Nerlin asked, seeing his son pale.

“No,” Neroon admitted, in a rare moment of weakness. “I am not. Father, it is true that I nearly broke Valen’s Ban. I plotted the murder of another Minbari, never mind that I did not think her to be one of our people when I did so. I planned to kill Delenn, because I thought she plotted against our people and against the future, to gain power for herself. But my reasons don’t matter. I planned to break Valen’s Ban not in a moment of anger, but coldly and rationally. I nearly destroyed myself, my Clan, and our people in a moment of misguided pride that said I knew more about how to lead than she ever will.”

“That isn’t entirely untrue,” Nerlin offered consolingly. “I’ll leave my opinion of your actions out of this. But Delenn will never be the leader you are, because Delenn does not understand darkness. Delenn has never and will never be able to understand that there will always have to be a sacrifice, to win the brightest future for all. It is her greatest strength, and her greatest weakness, that peculiar innocence she has. But I sense there is more to this story.”

Neroon sighed, and nodded. “I was intercepted by an Anla’Shok before I could carry out my plan. He challenged me to den’shah.”

“To the death? I didn’t think they taught the Anla’Shok such outdated Warrior traditions. Which Clan was he from, that they still practice such things?”

Neroon snorted. “You met him this afternoon, father. Marcus Cole. The human. And for the first time, when I was fighting him, I truly believed what I had been told, that the humans shared souls with our own people. Because he was beaten, and I could have killed him, and still he looked up my denn’bok at me and proclaimed the name of Valen, willing to die to save Delenn when I was willing only to kill her.”

“So you walked for six valsta in his shoes, learning to see the world as he sees it.”

“It’s such a different world, father. And yet so very much the same. Loneliness, duty, honour, family. The pursuit of knowledge, and the pursuit of a better future. It was enlightening, and it was disconcerting. I learned things about myself in those six valsta that I am still processing. I learned more about myself, seeing my actions through his eyes, than I learned in the Trial of Shadow.”

“You were a different man, seeing yourself through his eyes, than the youth who faced the Trial,” Nerlin pointed out. 

“Not that different,” Neroon disagreed. “Until that moment, I never truly knew myself. And what I found was not worthy to be a Warrior.”

“And yet you returned. Why?”

“Because Marcus helped me to understand that the attempt to be worthy of that title is more important than the achievement of it. Anyone may have a moment of darkness, but to pull out of it and go on, knowing that you will forever carry it with you, that is a truer mark of strength than if you never faced it at all. So I pulled myself out of it, with his help. And then he was healed, and my time was up, and Delenn decided to act.

“You know, I suppose, that there are tensions between the Castes?”

Nerlin snorted. “You can hardly miss it, in the cities. I’ve never seen such segregation. Here in the Clan lands, it isn’t bad, but walk the streets of Yed’oore or Tuzan’oore, and you will see.”

“Delenn wishes to combat it by forcing the Castes to work together. She is placing Religious Caste and Anla’Shok with various Worker Caste groups, to facilitate understanding. She wished to continue with the Warrior Caste, so she enlisted my help.”

Nerlin chuckled. “I can imagine the sparks that flew during that conversation. You and Delenn have never gotten along, and I doubt it improved on this last visit.”

Neroon chuckled wryly, and nodded his agreement. “Well, we reached an accord this time, at least. I agreed to have Lennier and Marcus aboard the Ingata, since I know them both and can vouch that their characters are of the highest quality, as are their abilities. And they proved themselves ten times over, in battle against the Sher’shok Dum when we rescued Fara. I have evidence to present to Shakiri, and he will not like it. I have seen and fought the Shadows, heard them screaming through my mind, seen the damage they deal just because they can. 

“Father, if we do not unite as a people against this enemy, if we allow them to go unchecked, then we will all perish. Because they will not stop. A thousand years ago, Valen appeared from nowhere to unite our people. But this is not a time of legends, and there will be no Valen to guide us now; we must come together on our own to defeat them this time.”

Nerlin was silent for a while, studying his son. “You think so?” He asked quietly. “I think this is also a time of legends; of Delenn who bridged our peoples, and Sheridan Star-Killer who broke ties with his own government to maintain a free port and build an alliance stronger than any we have seen. There are others, up there on that floating city of theirs, who will change the universe as much as Valen did.”

“But not the Minbari,” Neroon countered. “The Minbari will not change, not for Delenn and not for the others. Like Valen she may be able to force them to do things her way, but she will not change what is in their minds, or their hearts. And when she is gone, the laws she makes will hold, but nothing will be different.”

Nerlin nodded. “Perhaps.” He seemed as though he would say more, then changed the subject entirely. “In any case, it is for the future. Tell me more of this Marcus Cole; you think very highly of him.”

Neroon nodded, not realizing how much his eyes gave away when he spoke of the Ranger. “He is an intriguing man, father. As honourable and as true to the heart of what it means to be a Warrior as anyone I have ever met. He has more faith in the universe and in his religious beliefs than I ever have, and he throws himself into everything he does. He’s suffered so much, but he still reaches out, still forges connections with people, still seeks to understand the universe. I’ve never met anyone quite like him; it’s almost as if he’s both Warrior and Soul-Seeker, with a little bit of primary school teacher thrown in.”

Nerlin chuckled. “So he is much like your mother, then.”

Neroon smiled at the irony. “Yes. More Warrior than she is, but yes, a fair comparison.”

“And you care for him,” Nerlin prodded.

Neroon nodded. “I have grown to. It wasn’t easy; I wanted to hate him. As I walked in his shoes, I saw many things that made me uncomfortable. Things that made me question everything I thought I knew. I’m still questioning some of it.”

“You conceal it well.”

Neroon snorted derisively. “I’ve meditated more in the past two months than I have in the past twenty years. My soul feels torn. Everywhere I turn, my world is crumbling. The only thing I’m sure of anymore is that, no matter how many hidden layers I have yet to uncover, Marcus is the best man I’ve ever known. I am proud to have him at my side.”

Nerlin’s eyes were serious as he regarded his son. “You love him.”

Neroon stopped dead. “Father!”

Nerlin shook his head. “Please, Neroon, I’ve known where your affections tend since you were in your twenties and writing bad poetry to your friend Hedronn of the Moon Shields. That you love a man does not surprise me.”

Neroon shook his head, eyes still wide with surprise. “I didn’t think it did. But he’s human.”

“With a Minbari soul, you said. And if it is love, and not lust, then it is the soul that matters, son. Souls are not always reborn to the same form. Perhaps in a past life, you were both women, and Worker Caste. There are any number of combinations, but if Minbari souls are being born in human forms, then those connections will exist. I am not surprised. Shocked, worried for you, concerned for the future. But not surprised.”

“But the Alien Prohibition -”

“If Valen’s Ban applies to the humans, then the Alien Prohibition should not,” Nerlin stated decisively. “Though many will not see it that way. You’ve chosen a hard road, Neroon. As a father, I wish your heart had led you differently, because I do not wish to see you in pain. And you will be, if you pursue this. But I’m also proud of you. I haven’t met many with the strength of character to look at themselves as you have done and, finding themselves wanting, work so hard to change. I know your mother will be equally proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Neroon whispered.

“I must ask, though, what do you intend to do now?” Nerlin continued. “Loving a human is one thing. It is internal, and harms no one. But-”

“I intend to fight a war against the Sher’shok Dum,” Neroon answered swiftly. “And then I intend to court him, honourably, following the traditions of our Clan. He deserves no less.”

“Have you spoken to him? I don’t want to see you with a broken heart, Neroon. You may be an Alyt, and Satai, but sometimes I can’t help but look at you and see a tiny boy still wielding a padded denn’bok.”

Neroon chuckled. “I have spoken to him, yes, but we haven’t spoken to anyone else. We’re willing to wait.”

“Then I am happy for you. When the rest of Minbar stands against you for this, remember that your Clan will welcome any husband you find worthy. Now, let us forget this conversation ever took place. Tell me of Delenn; is it true she has hair?”

Neroon laughed harder at that, and proceeded to fill his father in on the news of the universe.

***

Marcus sat very still, wishing he could play with his denn’bok the way he usually did when he was nervous. The council chambers of the Star Riders estate were large, echoing, and very intimidating. They reminded him a bit of the pictures he’d seen of old British courthouses; there was a raised dais at the front with six chairs, separated from the rest of the room by a stone balustrade. On the other side of that balustrade Marcus sat to one side of Neroon; Lennier was on his other side. The command crew of the Ingata was ranged behind them where the witnesses might have sat. About two and a half stories above the floor of the chamber was a balcony, filled today mostly with Star Riders. Marcus couldn’t help but be glad they didn’t have peanuts; he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his composure if they did.

“Peanuts?” Lennier whispered across to him.

“Did I say that out loud?” Marcus asked.

“Not loudly. But you are muttering to yourself, and I’m curious what peanuts have to do with a meeting of the Elders. What is a peanut?” Lennier returned.

“It’s a small nut grown on earth. Cheap, plentiful, easy to transport, healthy, non-perishable. The perfect food for the common man, really. A few hundred years ago, our courtrooms looked something like this; people would stand in the gallery up at the top eating peanuts and watching the proceedings, yelling their opinions – and sometimes throwing the peanuts, if they thought someone was being particularly idiotic. It got to be so common that whenever anybody offered an unwanted opinion, regardless of where they were, they were often referred to as the Peanut Gallery.”

Lennier gave him a strange look.

“It’s true! I’m not making this up, Lennier. Human history is bizarre enough that I don’t have to!” Marcus defended.

“Quiet,” Neroon interrupted.

They both shut up, just as the large doors to the side of the dais opened. A Minbari dressed in old-fashioned armour – the kind Marcus suspected only appeared in museums and meetings of the Warrior Caste Council – stepped through, bowing low to the room. He stood beside the doorway, and the near-silent muttering in the gallery stopped entirely.

“Elder Rathenn of the Moon Shields, the first Clan,” he intoned gravely, and a gong struck somewhere as an ancient Minbari entered to the accompanying chime of the cone-shaped bells the Minbari favoured.

“Elder Aalann of the Star Riders, the second Clan.” The gong struck, the bells rang, and Aalann, looking even more impressive than she had yesterday, strode to her seat.

“Elder Kalain of the Fire Wings, the third Clan.” Kalain was younger than her fellows, but moved with every bit as much confidence and authority.

“Elder Sinoval of the Night Walkers, the fourth Clan.”

“Elder Mazik of the Wind Swords, the fifth Clan,” Mazik openly glared at Marcus and Lennier as he entered. He didn’t seem too happy with Neroon, either.

“Shai Alyt Shakiri, of the Wind Swords Clan,” the caller announced finally, and Marcus got his first look at the man who he’d heard so much about.

He wasn’t overly impressive, as Minbari Warriors went, Marcus thought. While taller and more powerfully built than Neroon, he carried himself with arrogance more than the calm confidence displayed by the Star Riders Marcus knew. His eyes were almost colourless, and Marcus disliked them immediately; there was no warmth in them. He was looking at a different breed of Warrior than the Star Riders, the kind of Warrior who would have pounded earth to rubble and hunted out the remnants of humanity because he loved war. That was not the kind of Warrior Marcus believed had any place on the battlefield, although he knew there were a distressingly large number of them in high-ranking positions in EarthForce, as well. The man who started the Minbari war sprang immediately to mind, as did certain others.

The caller – one of the elders of the Star Riders, named Vashaer, if Marcus remembered the introductions correctly – stepped up to a podium clearly erected for his use.

“This session of the Council Of Elders for the Warrior Caste will come to order,” he called, rather unnecessarily in Marcus’ opinion. “We are here to deliberate actions taken by Alyt Neroon of the Star Riders, commander of the Sharlin-class cruiser Ingata. The Elder for the First Clan will read the opening statements.”

Rathenn stood creakily, leaning on a staff for support, but his eyes were clear as he addressed them.

“First, let it be understood that this is neither a court of law nor an inquiry. Alyt Neroon has committed neither crime nor breach of protocol. The Council would simply like an explanation of two of the Alyt’s actions while in command of the Ingata. Firstly, that a member of the Religious Caste and a member of the Anla’Shok were both accepted into the crew of the Ingata without a Clan adoption. Second, that the Alyt took the Ingata off course, resulting in a battle with an unknown enemy and the discovery of a destroyed merchant vessel, the Daradi by name.”

“That,” Shakiri growled, out of turn, “Is not an Anla’Shok. That is a human, and it has no place in the presence of this Council.”

Rathenn gave the Shai Alyt a hard look. “He is an Anla’Shok, according to the register of the Library in Yed’oore, and he is a formal guest of the Star Riders Clan, in whose hall we now sit. This Council will progress according to the order set out. If I may?” he finished, sarcastically.

Shakiri glowered, but nodded his acquiescence. 

“Thank you. Now, Alyt Neroon, perhaps you would care to explain the circumstances surrounding these events. First, the presence of the Priest and the Anla’Shok, if you will, after which we will debate your reasons.” He sat back down.

Marcus watched as Neroon found himself once again going over a condensed – and edited, he noticed – version of their meeting and the agreement reached with Delenn. Neroon left out all details of the den’shah, in fact, saying only that he had first encountered Marcus when a dispute with Delenn’s ideals had turned violent. He admitted that he’d beaten the human unconscious, and that their conversations as Marcus healed had given him a great deal to think about. He confessed that, in this new frame of mind, he had sought council with the ranking Priestess on Babylon 5 – namely Delenn – who told him a few more things that made him uncomfortable. Since they were both high-ranking officials of their respective Castes, they had reached an agreement that would hopefully prevent further outbreaks of violence. He pointed out that the Warrior Caste engaged in a similar practice between its Clans, exchanging young people to serve on the warships of other Clans, to give their youth a broader base of experience and knowledge.

When he was finished, the council sat silently for some time, each thinking over what he’d said. Marcus noticed Shakiri fidgeting, and wondered how someone so obviously unsuited had ever risen to Shai Alyt. He didn’t even have the discipline to remain still, as every other Warrior in the room was doing!

Finally, Rathenn turned to his colleagues. “Your thoughts?” he asked. 

“It’s a good solution to an ongoing problem,” Aalann stated bluntly. “The Castes have been strangers to each other for too long. If Alyt Neroon, who is famous for his intolerant attitudes, can have his eyes opened widely enough to see the peaceful solutions possible, then I think there is hope for us yet.”

Neroon didn’t visibly react to his aunt’s words, but Marcus had to hide a smile. He rather liked the acerbic old woman; she tolerated no nonsense from anyone, but was eminently capable of dispensing it.

“I agree,” Kalain offered. “An elegant solution to a worsening problem. Tell me, Alyt, do you think it worked?”

Neroon nodded. “I had many crewmembers who thought that the Religious Caste was little better than useless, and that the Anla’Shok were an outdated relic that was poisoning the purity of our people. These same recruits are now happy to spar with Marcus and learn new fighting techniques, and equally happy to engage in conversation on battle ethics with Lennier. It has opened their eyes and their minds, and friendships instead of rivalries have resulted.”

“Then I can see no ill coming from this change,” Kalain finished.

Sinoval merely nodded his acceptance of his colleague’s words.

“I must disagree,” Mazik said finally. “There is no place on a warship for any not of the Warrior Caste. Had there been a Clan adoption as is customary, I would welcome their presence on the grounds that Alyt Neroon has put before us. But there was none. How can the ideals and traditions of the Warrior Caste be upheld, if those serving on our ships have no commitment to those same ideals and traditions?”

“Are our traditions so weak, then, that the presence of two not of our Caste can disturb them?” Aalann countered.

“The smallest pebble may begin the rockslide, Elder Aalann,” Mazik returned. “I stand by my answer. Until there is a Clan adoption, or suitable substitute, then I cannot approve of this course of action.”

Neroon cleared his throat. “If I may, Elder? There is precedent, from before the time of Valen, for Religious Caste of the Tha’Domo order to serve on warships without Caste adoption. The Tha’Domo were once considered to be a sub-Clan, not one of the five, but not entirely outside the Caste.”

Mazik nodded. “I had forgotten this. But that does not change the presence of the Anla’Shok, who is a member of no Clan by the traditions of his own order. I’m sorry, Neroon. But if we do not hold to our traditions, what do we have? There has never been an Anla’Shok serving on a warship without being adopted or marrying into a Clan first. Not even if they were born Warrior Caste.”

Neroon bowed his acceptance.

“Shai Alyt?” Rathenn asked. “How do you speak?”

Shakiri frowned. “I cannot object to a Tha’Domo Priest, even though a Warrior who defends instead of attacking is only half a Warrior. But I stand with my Clan Elder on the presence of the Anla’Shok. Further, how do we know they have not been tainted by their admittance of non-Minbari? How can we know if they follow the ways of Valen as they once did? This man is neither Minbari nor Warrior, and he has no place here.” Shakiri was good, Marcus acknowledged; his objections sounded reasonable, and to the mildly xenophobic Minbari, his words probably carried great weight.

“Heard and witnessed,” Rathenn said. “Marcus Cole of the Anla’Shok, it appears your presence is the only one contested. Can you offer any assurance to this Council?”

Marcus looked the elderly Minbari in the eye, and spoke his oaths slowly and clearly. “I am a Ranger. We walk in the dark places that others fear to enter. We stand on the bridge, and no one may pass. We live for the one, we die for the one. In Valen’s name.”

“A commendable sentiment,” Shakiri said smoothly. “Do you do anything but parrot words others have put in your mouth? And who is this one you speak of? Delenn of Mir? What do we know of the things she plots?” His words carried subtle overtones, reminding the listeners of their unease with Delenn’s transformation and many of her actions since, including the breaking of the Grey Council. Marcus couldn’t even blame them; Delenn had done what she was destined to do, but she had alienated her people in the process. He could understand their worries.

Marcus refused to rise to the Shai Alyt’s baiting. “What other proof can I offer? I was not born Minbari, but I have chosen to live among you, to adopt your ways and language, to honour your culture and your history. Since these choices are clearly not enough to prove myself to you, and my vows to the Anla’Shok are equally insufficient, then the only defence I have left is that Valen himself was not born of Minbari, and if you find my presence unacceptable, you must find his the same!”

Murmurs erupted in the gallery at that statement, and Vashaer was forced to pound his denn’bok on the floor to regain the crowd’s attention. Rathenn and Aalann were both shooting Marcus slyly approving looks, while Shakiri and Mazik looked as if they’d just sucked on something particularly sour.

“Well said, Anla’Shok Cole,” Rathenn acknowledged bowing to him. “We will reflect on your words.” He turned to Neroon. “Now, Alyt, if you will please explain the circumstances surrounding your second decision.”

Neroon bowed slightly. “The Ingata suffered a minor engine malfunction that sent us drifting off course. My engineers were confident they could repair it, but as there was a merchant ship no more than three hours from us, I chose to let the Ingata continue drifting in that direction in case we should need to barter for parts. It is standard practice in such situations. By the time we had the engines running normally again, it was past the time we should have rendezvoused with the Daradi, but we could find no trace of them on our sensors. At that point, I became concerned that they had suffered a mishap, and decided to push on. If we had not found them within a few hours, I would have called for a search.

“But we did find them. The ship was destroyed, razored cleanly into sections and left to drift. The damage was severe, and very deliberate; any section with an airlock was targeted first, so that those not killed by the bombardment would suffocate. No effort was made to avoid destroying valuable sections of the hull or to strip the ship after the damage was done, leading us to the conclusion that raiders could not be responsible. I ran a scan for survivors; had we found none, we would have called for reinforcements before proceeding, since we were dealing with an unknown enemy. But the presence of a single life sign changed those plans; we were required to board the Daradi immediately to make an attempt – fortunately successful – to save her. I took ten of the Ingata’s best Warriors, my chief Hela’mer, Lennier, and Marcus, and we entered the ship.”

“Wait,” Aalann interrupted. “Why the Tha’Domo and the Anla’Shok?”

“Because the Daradi was a mixed-species cruiser, and between them, they speak nearly a dozen languages,” Neroon answered. “We had no way of knowing who the survivor was.”

“Why not a telepathic scan, to discover the species before you boarded?” Kalain asked.

“I decided not to risk the Ingata’s only telepath when we didn’t know the enemy we were facing. There was no way to be sure the survivor wasn’t some kind of trap.”

“Wise,” Rathenn admitted. “Please continue.”

“We boarded, and discovered the survivor to be a Minbari child, probably Worker Caste, approximately six cycles old. Lennier attempted to speak to her, but something about the shadows he was throwing on the wall terrified her. Anla’Shok Cole took his place, reasoning that he might be less frightening, and succeeded in calming the girl enough to get her off the ship. He took her to the shuttle and placed her in the care of our Hela’mer, while the rest of us continued our search of the ship.”

“This girl was afraid of other Minbari?” Mazik asked, concerned.

“No, Elder,” Neroon countered. “She was afraid of shadows. Once she saw us in the light, she lost all fear, and succeeded in completely charming my crew; she’s become something of a good-luck charm on the Ingata since we found her. My Warriors have taken to getting tokens from her before they spar. Since we couldn’t find her family or even Clan records of her birth through the Library, I have adopted her as my daughter and a member of the Star Riders Clan.”

“Ah. Good.” Mazik nodded. “Continue.”

“We encountered the trap we were expecting when we reached the bridge,” Neroon continued. “The enemy was waiting for us. We faced them with the denn’bok, and it did nothing. We couldn’t damage them. They were large, like the rock-spiders from the southern continent only man-sized, armoured, and not entirely part of this reality. Their scream pierced the heart; I think it was as much telepathic as auditory, and I’m glad I spared my telepath contact with them. They were also capable of controlling the dead crew; they’d taken three of the bridge officers before we got there. Lennier was forced to defend himself against the dead while my Warriors were tossed about by these creatures like fish on market day.

“Finally, Anla’Shok Cole and the guard I’d sent with him returned, following the sounds of fighting. The Anla’Shok was armed with an energy weapon in addition to his denn’bok, and this did far more damage to the creature than anything we’d been able to accomplish. My Warriors immediately scrounged for discarded weaponry, and we succeeded in driving the things away, although I do not believe we killed them.”

“Do you have any clues as to their identity?” Rathenn asked.

Neroon nodded slowly. “If I may, is there a book of Valen present?” 

Rathenn looked startled, but gestured for one to be brought. When it was, he held it carefully. 

“Turn to page one hundred and sixteen, Elder, and you will see an image of the things we fought, and a description of their scream.”

Rathenn blanched, but opened the book as he was asked, showing it to the other Elders before turning it so that those on the floor could see. 

“This is the enemy you fought?” He asked.

Neroon nodded. “My word as a Warrior.”

“Can your crew confirm this?” Kalain asked quietly.

“We can,” Calafenn said, from just behind Marcus. “All of us who fought them are in agreement. The Sher’shok Dum have returned.”

Gasps came from the gallery, and Vashaer was forced to bang his denn’bok again for silence.

“This is a grave accusation,” Rathenn said. “And you tell us they cannot be harmed by the denn’bok, and only mildly by energy weapons. Anla’Shok Cole, did you know this when you fired?” 

Marcus sighed. “I knew that nothing we had with us could truly hurt them, Elder,” he admitted. “My homeworld was the mining colony Arisia; it was destroyed by these creatures – humans call them Shadows – two years ago. Nothing the colony had, not even the blasters used in deep mining, could kill them. But we found that energy weapons set on a certain wavelength could hurt them, and I’ve carried one with me ever since.”

“Did you know about their control over the dead?” Aalann asked.

“No,” Marcus shook his head. “Only rumours, the same as the rumours in the book of Valen.”

Rathenn turned to his colleagues. “These are serious matters. We will adjourn to deliberate them,” he decided, and the room was silent as the elders rose and departed, Shakiri shooting a glare at the human as they did so.

Marcus waited impatiently for them to return, unsure what their final decision would be on either matter. Would he be forced to give up his place by Neroon’s side, on the eve of war? He didn’t know if he could do that. 

Finally, the elders re-entered the room. Shakiri looked angry, Mazik resigned, the rest neutral, and Marcus relaxed slightly. Anything that irritated Shakiri couldn’t help but be good for him.

“The Council of Elders has reached a decision,” Rathenn proclaimed, when they had taken their places again. “The Religious Caste has been proclaiming the return of the ancient enemy for several cycles. Before his death, Dukhat himself believed it was coming. The Worker Caste has recently come to believe as well, after hearing stories from some of their deep-space trade ships. The Anla’Shok have always believed, but recently have been actively recruiting and training as they have not since the days of Valen. Only the Warrior Caste, who should have been the first to place ourselves between our people and this enemy, remained silent. Remained clear of the regions of space known to be trouble.

“No more!” Rathenn cried, and Marcus could see in the bent old form the strength he must have had in youth. “No longer will this Caste sit by while Religious and Worker die at the hands of an enemy they are in no way equipped to fight! Let every ship, from the largest Sharlin cruisers to the smallest two-man fighters, be readied! Let old alliances be re-opened, and let our long isolation end! The Warrior who stands alone is no Warrior, but a fool! No longer will this Caste rest on its reputation and its traditions, clinging to the past in the face of a changing universe! When the call comes for allies, for a united front against the ancient enemy, the Warrior Caste will be the first to respond!”

Cheers met his words from the gathered Star Riders, and Rathenn waited them out patiently.

“Too long has our Caste hidden behind arrogance and pride. Too long have we been the best Warriors known. We have grown lazy and complacent in the face of centuries without a true challenge, a true test of our abilities. We have fallen so far that it seemed to us honourable to chase down and exterminate a young race, making its first steps into space and reacting with fear to a powerful unknown. We have dishonoured ourselves and our ancestors by such actions.”

Aalann stood. “We return to what we once were; Warriors in the service of Clan, Caste, and Minbari. But more than that, we return to honour; the Anla’Shok are not the only ones whose duty it is to stand between the darkness and the light. Such is our duty, and too long it has gone ignored while we bask in our own importance. This Caste was not created to fight only those battles it can win!” she exclaimed. “This Caste exists to fight those battles we are almost certain to lose, for the good of all! What do you say, Warriors of the Star Riders? Shall we be Warriors once more?”

The yes that was shouted by every Star Rider present nearly lifted the roof of the chamber. Shakiri scowled. Marcus wasn’t sure whether some plan of his had been derailed, or whether he was simply unhappy that the Star Riders were the first to hear the Council’s decision. He hoped it was the second.

Vashaer thumped for silence again, and earned it somewhat grudgingly.

“There is still the matter of Anla’Shok serving aboard warships to be put before this Council,” Rathenn said, when the gallery had calmed. “Precedence allows only those Anla’Shok who have married or been adopted into the Warrior Caste to serve, but we have never before needed to deal with Anla’Shok who are barred from these two qualifications because they were not born Minbari. Also, there is the matter of the new scout ships the Anla’Shok now command, the White Stars. 

“These ships are formidable, but they are not warships; they are designed for speed and endurance, not firepower, although they certainly have weapons when needed. These ships are, in every way, suited to the tasks of the Anla’Shok – to search out information, to work as spies, agents, saboteurs, and rescue personnel. On many missions, a crew of Anla’Shok and Tha’Domo aboard one of these White Stars could be far more effective than a crew of Warriors aboard a Sharlin cruiser.

“However, for the Anla’Shok to work well, they must work in secrecy. The Warrior Caste once provided a shield for them to work behind; we will do so again. Let the Warrior Caste go forth and engage the enemy, so that the Anla’Shok may go behind and save those who cannot save themselves. To this end, the Caste and the Anla’Shok must work hand-in glove, must function as a shield arm and a sword arm. Together. To this end, we extend the same sub-Clan status to the Anla’Shok as we extend to the Tha’Domo order. They are Warriors in the service of our people, whatever their background, and shall be honoured for the calling of their hearts. Any Anla’Shok wishing to serve active duty aboard a Warrior ship may be welcomed at the Alyt’s discretion, and any Warrior youth wishing to serve their period of exchange service aboard a White Star has the Council’s permission to go. This decision will be repeated before all of the Clans.”

Rathenn turned to face Neroon again. “While our decision will be relayed to the staging ground at Babylon 5 immediately, for a short time we will have to coordinate with them from here. The Ingata will remain berthed long enough to receive a complete battle refit. During this time, you and your crew will meet privately with telepaths, so that your memories can be examined for clues to the enemy we now face. When you are ready, you will go to Babylon 5, and take our official offer of alliance from the Caste to Sheridan Starkiller’s war council. The Warrior Caste has been without a flagship since the Dralafi; it is time that changed.”

“I wish my objection to this to be noted,” Shakiri spat. “The flagship should not be crewed by a single Clan, and we betray ourselves by allying with Starkiller.”

“The Caste betrayed itself when it returned to destroy a defeated, crippled enemy!” Aalann returned. “The Dralafi acted without honour, and without thought, and fell into a trap. There is not a Warrior alive who did not lose family on that ship, but we can blame no one but ourselves. Sheridan Starkiller no more acted without honour than a cornered mebel defending its lair.”

Shakiri snarled, but backed down. “I still wish my objections noted. I do not believe this is the right thing for the Caste.”

“It’s better than what you would have us do,” Neroon snarled back, no longer willing to remain silent and polite. “You refused to acknowledge reports of trouble in the shipping lanes. You refuse alliances simply because they are with those not of our Caste. We may be the strongest in the universe, but it has never been a Minbari belief that the strong rule the weak. Only that we guide them.”

“ Your time with the humans has clouded your judgement, Neroon.” Shakiri growled. “I am not the enemy. You are coming dangerously close to treason with your words.”

“Have you forgotten, Shakiri?” Neroon asked, quietly enough that Marcus barely heard him. His comment was meant for the Shai Alyt’s ears only. “You rule our Caste because I was Satai when the vote was taken. I will never betray my Caste, but I will speak my mind.”

Shakiri glared at Neroon, but nodded. “We have missed each other’s point, I think. I did not mean that we should rule, and I am sure you did not mean to question my decisions. Let that be an end to it.”

“So be it,” Neroon nodded. Marcus wondered whether the former Satai truly believed in Shakiri as a leader, despite the latter’s intolerant attitudes and radical prejudices.

Rathenn cleared his throat. “If you are quite finished?” he waited for both to nod before continuing. “The Ingata will be crewed with Warriors chosen from all five Clans; the Elders will prepare a list of those worthy and forward it to you, Neroon, during the refit. You may, of course, consult with Aalann on those of your current crew who will continue their postings.”

Neroon bowed to the Council.

“This is the word of the Council of Elders. May it be so,” Vashaer intoned, and the gallery repeated the last sentence back loudly. 

“This Council is finished,” Rathenn proclaimed, and led the way out of the chamber, the other Elders trailing after him.

***


	3. Part 2

In the end, although the majority of the Warrior fleet set sail immediately for trouble sectors throughout the galaxy, the Ingata remained berthed at Minbar for nearly two months. Part of this was necessity; the ship had not had a complete overhaul in nearly three decades, and the engineering crew made dire threats against anyone attempting to take her into battle without one. Part of this was ceremonial; having been named the new flagship, a new crew had to be selected and begin training together, new officers had to get to know their command, and certain ship’s systems needed to be altered significantly. Shakiri had elected to remain on his own ship; Marcus was given to understand that while it was preferable for the Shai Alyt to command from the flagship, it wasn’t all that unusual for him to command from a ship of his own Clan instead.

Two months at the Star Riders compound had wrought many changes in Lennier. He carried himself now like a confident young man, sure of his place and his abilities. He had faced his demons, and overcome most of them. If thoughts of Delenn still pained him, he didn’t let on, but Marcus thought from the look he’d seen in his friend’s eyes recently that the young priest was finally separating his identity from hers as much as he was able to. It was a good thing; Lennier had never had a chance to be an adult on his own, before he had been subsumed into Delenn’s forceful personality. Now it looked as though he might break free, at least enough to live a good life apart from her. All things considered, for a Minbari in Lennier’s situation that was no small miracle.

The rest had been good for Marcus as well, he had to admit. The Star Riders estate was peaceful and quiet, and the many long days spent walking with Neroon and various family members in the hills and forests had been amazing. Apart from his Ranger and EFI training, it was the longest period he’d ever spent on a planet that supported life; Arisia had been a mining colony, with an un-breathable atmosphere. Only the mining compound had been safe. He found life on Minbar magical, like something out of the tales his mother used to tell of her home. Minbar in high summer was beautiful to begin with, but something about the contrast between colourful vegetation and glittering white crystal this far north took it to an entirely different level. Marcus spent as much time as his duties as liaison allowed outside, usually with Fara and the other children, exploring wherever he could. Minbar’s winters were long and harsh enough that during the fine summer months no one tried too hard to keep the children confined inside at their lessons. Better for them to run about while they could.

Neroon’s family was as wonderful as the estate. Once they’d realized that a close friendship had grown between the Alyt and the odd human Ranger they went out of their way to make him welcome, trading stories and histories with him with more ease than he’d ever have expected. He had been included in family and Clan events with ease, including helping Ardminn and Ardiri with the family’s traditional booth at the midsummer market in the nearest town not two weeks after he’d arrived. The town had been a unique experience for him, and he’d gone back several times to get to know some of the everyday Minbari that he’d never really encountered before. He’d often taken Fara with him, since she knew as little as he did about the workings of an average Minbari settlement. She’d been a joy on these occasions, bringing a smile to the face of anyone who met her. Few shadows lingered from the attack on her ship; she’d bounced back with resilience typical of very young children, and had quickly adapted to life on the ground as a member of the Star Riders Clan. It broke Marcus’ – and Neroon’s – hearts to leave her, but a war was no place for children. She would be well guarded by the elders, along with the other children of the Clan.

So it was that just over two months later, Marcus stood once again on the completely refitted bridge of the Ingata. He and Lennier had joined Neroon’s command crew around the central console immediately prior to launch for the rededication ceremony. Most of the bridge crew was the same; the other Clans had filled in high-level positions in other areas on the ship. On the console rested a familiar wooden chest.

“I thought this was a Ranger tradition?” he whispered to Lennier.

“It was a Warrior tradition first,” the young priest responded. “The Rangers use a single star, to remind them that they live and die by starlight, in the dark places no other will enter. The Warriors use the whole of the solar system, to remind them that they fight not only for their own ship, but for all that lives; the planets and the moons, and the empty spaces between.”

“This is not a new ship, but after such a complete refit and change of hands the Ingata almost feels like one. As we enter it in service, let us remember why we serve. To protect those who cannot protect themselves. We die, so that others may live in peace. This is the way of the Warrior, as it is now, as it has always been. We will proceed with the Naming of Names,” Neroon proclaimed, as Siarann took an ancient sculpted solar system out of the wooden chest.

“Your name, your place, and your truth,” she ordered, passing it to Lennier, standing on Neroon’s immediate right

“Lennier of the Third Fane of Chu’domo, Religious Caste, liaison officer,” the priest began. “I am seeking peace.” He passed the small sculpture on. Many of the Minbari nodded, as if that was to be expected of a Religious Caste; Marcus knew that his friend’s truth had more to do with internal peace than peace in the galaxy.

“Haynwa of the Star Riders, Worker Caste, chief Hela’mer of the Ingata,” Haynwa continued the ceremony. “My duty is to life, not death.”

“Calafenn of the Star Riders, Warrior Caste, weapons officer. In dreams, I have seen starlight.”

“Helacann of the Star Riders, Worker Caste, administration officer. I think I’ve found what I was looking for.”

“Nerlin of the Star Riders, Warrior Caste, navigation,” Nerlin smiled at his son, obviously pleased to have been asked to return to a position he’d held for most of his life. “I’m just happy to be back onboard.”

“Hedronn of the Moon Shields, Warrior Caste, interspecies communication,” A Minbari about Neroon’s age who Marcus had only met briefly continued. Neroon had said this man was his oldest friend, and Marcus looked forward to getting to know him. “Honour.”

“Marcus Cole, human Anla’Shok,” Marcus said quietly. His truth from when he had first joined the Rangers was far different from any he could use today, and it had been a challenge to find one that did not reveal more than he wanted to about his relationship with Neroon, his inner thoughts, or his past. “I’m not repressed anymore,” he finally settled on, catching Lennier’s smirk across the table while the rest of the crew blinked and shrugged.

“Siarhael of the Star Riders, Worker Caste, second engineer,” Siarhael had been promoted out of Marcus and Lennier’s service while they were docked. He was now second in command of the engineering section; the chief engineer, a grumpy but highly competent old man from the Fire Wings Clan, had refused to leave his engine room prior to takeoff. “I’m just happy to be here.”

“Siarann of the Star Riders, Warrior Caste, shok’na’li of the Ingata,” Siarann took the delicate object from him, shaking her head slightly at his exuberance. “From the universe we are made, and to it we return.”

“Neroon of the Star Riders, Warrior Caste, Alyt of the Ingata,” Neroon looked thoughtful for a moment. “A Warrior’s heart is the greatest gift in the universe.” He stopped there, leaving most of his crew to think that he meant that literally, especially since they were heading into battle. Marcus, who knew differently, met Neroon’s eyes and allowed the love he felt for the Minbari to flare briefly in his. Neroon smiled, and nodded, before placing the sculpture back in the chest. Siarhael took it, and Marcus knew it would be replaced in the hidden compartment in the engine room that was known as the heart of the ship.

“Is the crew all aboard?” Neroon asked.

“Yes, Alyt,” Helacann answered, checking a list he held. “We’re ready when you are.”

Neroon nodded, taking his seat. “Father, set a course for Babylon 5.”

“May Valen go with us,” Lennier murmured as the massive ship – that Marcus still thought of as an angelfish, although he’d never admit as much to Neroon – weaved its way through the traffic over Minbar and towards the jumpgate.

***

Their return to Babylon 5 was met with almost as much pomp as their leaving. A full honour guard had turned out to welcome them, along with all of the ambassadorial staff currently on the station. Marcus was mildly relieved to see that the new Kosh had elected to remain out of this one; he wasn’t really sure he wanted to face a Vorlon today, especially one he didn’t know. He kept a careful watch on Lennier as they disembarked, but the young Minbari was meeting Delenn’s eyes squarely and clearly, with none of the haunted expression he’d been wearing for weeks before their initial departure, and Marcus began to believe that it would be all right as long as they were kept apart when not on official business.

Sheridan and Delenn met them as they descended the shuttle’s ramp into the docking bay of the station.

“Alyt Neroon,” Sheridan greeted. Marcus thought the man looked different, older than he had a few months ago, but perhaps it was just the effect of the war. Delenn, also, looked as though she hadn’t been taking care of herself, although in her case it was countered by a quiet joy that radiated out from her.

“Captain Sheridan,” Neroon responded, bowing. “I am authorized to give you this, in token of an official alliance between your army of light and the Minbari Warrior Caste.” He extended real paper documents, signed by all of the Clan Elders and the Shai Alyt. Marcus had been stunned when he’d seen them drawn up; he didn’t think the Minbari still used paper for anything. But the Warrior Caste was very conscious of appearances.

“I accept them gladly,” Sheridan smiled. “Will the Ingata be remaining with us or joining the rest of your ships?”

“The former,” Neroon stated. “We’ve been selected to represent the Warrior Caste in your war council.” He didn’t ask if it was convenient.

Sheridan nodded. “Well then, if you and your advisors would like to come this way, we can get started.” He turned and led the way out of the room at a fairly rapid pace, and Marcus felt badly for an instant. He’d been enjoying his time on Minbar so much, he’d forgotten than he had friends here on the station that lived on the edge of more than one war zone, dealing every day with the ugliest realities of the universe.

The other ambassadors fell in with them as they made their way to the war room, and Marcus smiled again when, after a brief exchange of words, Lennier left Delenn’s side and moved to have a quiet conversation with Vir. G’kar and Londo were conspicuous by their absence.

“Hey, you missed the excitement,” Garibaldi broke rudely into his thoughts, and Marcus smiled at the man.

“Oh?” He returned. “Do tell, Mr. Garibaldi.”

“Well, first, Stephen’s back,” Garibaldi offered. “That’s the good news.”

“You fill me with dread,” Marcus chuckled. “What’s the bad news?”

“So’s Sheridan,” the security chief replied. “And me.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean? I didn’t get much news on Minbar.”

“That’s always the problem. Lack of communication. You know, I’ve been saying for years that if you really want allies, if you really want peace, you just need to find a way to make sure everybody always has the exact same information.”

Marcus chucked. “Well, I won’t argue with the value of knowledge, that’s for sure. Where were you and the Captain?”

“Me?” Garibaldi asked. “Don’t know. Him? Don’t know either. We went up against these Shadow things, and I’m missing two weeks out of my life. Him? He’s got the two weeks, but they don’t make much sense. Says he went to Zha’ha’dum, blew the place up with a nuclear White Star, then made it back in one piece.”

Marcus gave Sheridan a more thorough appraisal. “Not entirely, I don’t think.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the question, isn’t it? How much of him did we get back?”

“Actually, I would’ve thought the question was how did he survive,” Marcus disagreed. 

“Oh, that. Some Lorien guy. You’ll meet him, he’s at all these war councils, Sheridan’s all buddy-buddy with the guy.”

Marcus sent a concerned look Garibaldi’s way. “Are you all right?”

“Me? Never better. Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m just finally starting to react to the past few months, you know?”

Marcus thought back over everything that had happened, particularly since Jeffrey Sinclair had taken Babylon 4 back through time, and nodded. “I can certainly understand that.” He still didn’t think that was all of it, and he’d be keeping a close eye on the chief, but for now he’d let it stand.

“So the Warriors are really getting into this fight, are they?” Garibaldi changed the subject.

“It certainly appears that way,” Marcus confirmed. “They’re quite fired up about it; it’s been a long time since the Warrior Caste faced a true challenge. They see this as a return to their glory days, when they fought impossible battles to save the innocent lives of the universe. After the debacle that was the Earth-Minbari war – and believe me, there are almost as many on their side who hate what they did as there are on ours – they latched onto this like a dog with a bone.”

“Good, that’s good. And it hasn’t been too weird, working in their pocket like this?”

Marcus shot the chief another startled look, but shrugged. “I chose to live among them and abide by their ways years ago, Michael. I like it on Minbar, and Neroon’s Clan welcomed me. I was sorry to leave.”

Garibaldi nodded absently. “Good, good. Oh, we’re here.”

They followed the others into the war room, but Marcus made a mental note to speak to someone. Something was very wrong with the security chief, and he intended to find out what.

“All right,” Sheridan began when they’d all taken seats around the table. “Now, most of us have been over this information several times, but we’ll do it again, for the benefit of the Warrior Caste.” He proceeded to go through several maps and star charts, pointing out the patterns of colonies being attacked by the Shadows – and the Vorlons, which was a surprise to Marcus, although not, it appeared, to Neroon – and the progress of the Narn-Centauri conflict. He went through lists of troop deployments, evacuation plans, and lists of casualties. 

Marcus focused on letting his memory absorb what he was hearing, making sure he’d be able to call it up again later, but part of him was cataloguing the room. The alien races were treating Sheridan as if he was the second coming, something that made Marcus profoundly uncomfortable; the last thing anyone needed was for this conflict to turn into a holy war. Delenn stayed as close to him as she could, and Marcus read the remains of desperation and fear in her eyes. By that, he knew Garibaldi’s preposterous claim about Sheridan surviving a suicide run on Zha’ha’dum had to be correct; nothing else would have terrified the Entil’zha so badly. He almost wished he’d been on the station, instead of on Minbar; he’d missed too many important events.

“Impressive,” Neroon commented, after digesting the information he’d been given. “Most impressive. It seems as if the attacks on all sides are building rapidly.”

Sheridan nodded. “That was our thought. It looks like the Shadows and the Vorlons are going to meet in the Coriana system; we’re hoping to engage them at Coriana Six. We think we can beat them, especially now that the Warrior Caste ships will be joining us.”

“You expect a space battle, then, no ground troops required?” Siarann questioned.

“Yes.”

“We’ll alert the rest of the Caste, then, and have them leave their ground troops somewhere they’ll do more good. No sense having them aboard doing nothing in a space battle.” She made a note on her pad.

“Do we know when this great battle will be?” Marcus asked. “And has anyone given any thought to the cleanup after? The Shadow Servants are not all corpses. Some of them are races that serve willingly, and they will not vanish just because we destroy their masters.”

“We expect the White Stars will be busy for some time, hunting down the remains of the dark ones,” Delenn answered.

“They may count on the support of the Star Riders Clan, at least,” Neroon offered. “The other Clans will make their own decision; the Council’s edicts only bind us to this war, not what comes after. But the Warriors are eager for a return to the days when we fought worthy adversaries among the stars, to protect those who could not or would not fight; I imagine most of the Caste will wish to help.”

Delenn inclined her head graciously. “It would be welcome. Thank you.”

***

On earth, in the northern regions where his mother was from, the leaves would be beginning to turn, Marcus reflected. The air would be just crisping with the first hint of fall. He’d arrived on earth at about this time of year when he’d answered the draft from Earth Force. On Minbar the leaves had already begun changing before they’d left; within the next few weeks the first snowfalls would come. Between the colourful rainbows of the crystal buildings and the pristine blankets of snow, it would look even more like a fairytale than usual. Parts of it, anyway, but even the harsh and rocky regions in the mountains would gain new beauty for a while.

It was a poor time of year to be going to war, but as he stood beside Neroon on the bridge of the Ingata and prepared to face down his worst nightmares in the crowded space about Coriana Six, that’s exactly what he was doing. None of them knew what they’d really be facing. None of them knew which side the Vorlons would fight for. The speeches had been made, the toasts drunk, and most of the just-in-cases said. All that was left was the terrible waiting.

“Come with me,” Neroon said suddenly, gesturing Marcus to follow as he headed for his small office just off the bridge, where he spent his duty shifts when he wasn’t truly needed to oversee the crew.

Marcus followed obediently, not questioning it when Neroon closed the door firmly behind them.

“What is it?” Marcus asked, concerned.

“I realized I hadn’t said all I needed to, before entering this fight,” Neroon admitted.

Marcus shook his head. “I don’t want a battlefield confession from you, Neroon.”

“And I don’t intend to give one. We’re both Warriors, Marcus. We might die in a thousand different ways every day, and I have never believed in the practice of baring your soul before a major fight. All it does is distract whoever you choose to hear your confession.”

“Then what?” Marcus asked.

“Only this,” Neroon said quietly, and bent his head, lifting a hand to cup Marcus’ cheek gently as their lips met. Marcus leaned into the kiss, parting his lips slightly but not trying to deepen it, knowing they had only moments before they needed to be back on the bridge. Neroon’s lips were softer than he’d expected, and the Minbari tasted vaguely of almonds. Marcus didn’t know how that was possible, since he was certain Neroon didn’t even know what an almond was, but he liked it. 

After far too short a moment, Neroon pulled back, but his hand remained, brushing the hair back from Marcus’ face gently. Marcus smiled at him, eyes bright with happiness.

“What was that for?” the Ranger asked, leaning just a little bit more into Neroon’s touch.

“Because I might not believe in battlefield confessions, but I don’t intend to die without having kissed you,” Neroon smiled back. “With everything that’s been happening, and the care we had to take on Minbar, I didn’t want you to forget that I love you.”

Marcus shook his head, and lifted his hand to clasp Neroon’s, placing a kiss in the palm. “I could never forget that. Don’t you forget that the feeling is mutual, Alyt. I intend to be courted properly, when this ends.”

Neroon chuckled and nodded, but whatever reply he might have made was cut off as warning klaxons began blaring. Both men stepped back, faces growing serious again. 

“So it begins,” Marcus commented as they left the office, in step with each other.

“So it begins,” Neroon agreed, and then there was no time for anything but shouted orders, and silent explosions that would have been beautiful if they hadn’t heralded the deaths of so many.

Marcus was caught up in the battle, relaying information coming in from the White Stars. Hedronn was handling the Unaligned Worlds, and Helacann was relaying all other ships. Marcus had almost forgotten what it was like working on a ship full of soldiers; there was none of the panic he was used to in his duties as a Ranger. Everyone was calm and focused, intent on the battle and their specific duties aboard the Ingata. Not far from his position, several of the sechs were yelling orders into their headsets, directing the Ingata’s many small fighters through the battle. It was a scene being played out on countless ships throughout the fleet as Shadows, Vorlons, and First Ones played out the last act of their ancient drama, oblivious to the younger races they stepped on in the process.

The Ingata rocked as shrapnel from a nearby ship impacted below the bridge section; Marcus ducked under his console quickly as several nearby stations exploded and Minbari were flung from their seats. He saw Lennier helping a scorched Helacann up, then moving about the bridge dispensing first aid. Some of those closest to the damaged area of the ship were unconscious; others who’d been thrown clear sported a variety of cuts and broken bones from landing poorly on damaged equipment.

“Marcus!” Siarann yelled from beside one of the unmoving bodies. “Take the weapons console!”

Marcus looked closer, noted that the body she was tending to was her husband, and moved as fast as he could to the badly damaged console, hands flying as he re-routed power through crystals that were never meant to be used the way he was using them. He’d burn out the entire weapons bank within hours doing this, and possibly a large chunk of some of the lower decks considering the paths he was sending power through, but if it got them through the battle it would be worth it. He fired a test shot, clearing the remainder of the debris from their vicinity, and turned his attention to the Shadows. Sensing an easy target, they had moved closer to the Ingata, and he was able to pick off chunks of their hull easily.

“Report!” Siarann yelled again, assuming the Alyt’s chair in the center of the bridge. Marcus took a moment to look wildly around for Neroon, fighting back panic when he saw the Alyt’s form lying on the deck plating, one of the younger Warriors bending over him with a medkit open beside them.

“Marcus,” Lennier called quietly and intensely from one console down. In the shrill blaring of the alarms, Marcus doubted anyone else could hear him.

Marcus turned scared eyes on the priest. “Lennier?”

“He’s alive, Marcus. I checked him myself. He’s broken his arm, and hit his head hard going down, but he’s fine.”

Marcus’ eyes cleared, and he nodded, turning his attention back to the battle at hand. A corner of his mind continued demanding he check on the Alyt himself, but Neroon would never forgive him if he shirked his duty that way.

“Weapons are functional,” he called to Siarann. “But not for very long. I had to bypass the main power conduits and run them through some of the lighting systems on the crew decks. Hull is mostly intact; the section that blew out was unmanned. Serious damage to the navigational and weapons systems, but communication and propulsion are intact. Major explosions throughout the forward section.”

“Reports coming of wounded from here to engineering; that was a lucky hit,” Hedronn called from the mostly intact communications console. “It blasted right through one of the ship-wide power conduits, set up a chain reaction that hit just about every section that draws power from it. We’re fortunate no one was killed; power feedback like that, we could have blown off the entire starboard wing.”

Siarann nodded. “Stay at your posts; as long as we have weapons and power, we keep fighting. Marcus, you have the firing console; at your discretion.”

Marcus nodded, and focused on the flickering targeting relays, going with an old earth solution when they started to grey out entirely. He swore, stood up, and kicked them as hard as he could. The Warriors remaining on the bridge sent incredulous looks his way, but as the weapons console stopped flickering and began emitting steady, if low-powered, signals, they shrugged and returned to their own problems.

“A unique solution,” Neroon’s voice rumbled from behind him. 

Marcus shot the Alyt a look that was equal parts lingering fright, relief, and irritation. “It’s worked for my ancestors for centuries.”

Neroon chuckled. “We may have to start teaching it to our engineers.” He clasped Marcus’ shoulder in reassurance, then moved to take his seat back from Siarann, splinted arm held awkwardly by his side. 

“Something’s happening, Neroon,” Hedronn called, confused.

“Define ‘something’, Hedronn!” Neroon grumbled. “Whenever you say ‘something’, it never ends well.”

“The Shadows and the Vorlons have all halted. They’re just hanging there, and none of our weapons are doing anything against them. Even a couple of the badly damaged fighters that have tried suicide runs are just bouncing off. The First Ones have all drawn back from the battle.”

Neroon shook his head. “I hate mysticism on a battlefield.” He frowned. “Hold here. If it moves, shoot it. Otherwise, we wait.”

A tense several minutes followed. Marcus kept his eyes locked onto the targeting scanners, while crewmembers scrambled around him putting out the last of the fires and performing quick and dirty field repairs on the consoles that were most needed. 

“They’re moving!” Nerlin called, taking a page from Marcus’ book and giving his console a good thump as it tried to spark again.

“Retreating!” Hedronn countered. “They’re pulling back!”

“Hold fire!” Neroon ordered, and Marcus held his hand still above the firing array. 

“Message from White Star 1,” Helacann called a moment later, newly bandaged head bent over Marcus’ former console. “Asks all ships to stand down; Shadows, Vorlons, and First Ones are conceding the field.”

Marcus snorted. “Why do I suddenly feel like it’s the Battle of the Line all over again?”

The Minbari turned to look at him. 

“Oh come on. Vastly more powerful enemy suddenly surrenders and pulls back for no good reason?” He shook his head. “I’m getting awfully tired of strange mystical interruptions to honest fights.”

“Heard!” Called several Warriors, the Minbari equivalent of a cheered agreement. Marcus smiled tightly.

“We’re being requested to pull back to Babylon 5, or to signal inability to do so so that aid can be sent,” Helacann said when they finished.

Neroon took a good look at the data readouts in front of him. “Signal back that we can make it under our own power,” he finally said. “Father, lay in a course, but hijack someone else’s jumpgate, if possible; I’m not sure we won’t blow something else up trying to open one ourselves.”

Nerlin chuckled, and the Ingata began a surprisingly steady journey back to the station.

“I just hope someone comes up with a slightly less crazy explanation this time around,” Marcus grumbled quietly, and set about undoing his hotwiring of the weapons’ system.

***

“I knew the explanation would be absurd,” Marcus sighed, leaning back in his chair in the war room of Babylon 5. The captains of every ship who had fought in the Coriana system were crammed into the room; from them, word would spread throughout their people.

“The Vorlons liked to say that everything has three sides; chaos, order, and chance. Well, the younger races are chance, and we won this round,” Sheridan was saying up at the front. “Both the Shadows and the Vorlons agreed to leave, to go beyond the Rim and leave this part of the galaxy to us. The remaining first ones went with them. It’s our galaxy now.”

Marcus noticed that he wasn’t the only one wearing an openly sceptical or disbelieving expression. 

“Anyone who needs to rebuild before heading home, Babylon 5 will remain open as a free port,” Ivanova promised. “Anyone with spare parts to put up for trade should make up a list and leave it with our command staff; everyone can submit their lists of needs to us, and we’ll match need to supplies. You can work out the payment between yourselves.” She glared around the room. “Some of you may think that the end of the larger threat means you can return to smaller disagreements; Babylon 5 is still neutral territory, and anyone engaging in hostile behaviour in our space will be met with the full force of this station’s arsenal. And my displeasure. Any questions?”

No one moved, and Marcus had to smile a little at the reminder of Ivanova’s forceful personality. 

“Then we can wrap this up,” Sheridan declared. “Thank you all. You can go home and tell your people that they can sleep safe tonight.”

The room noisily began to clear. Marcus started to get up to follow Neroon, but stopped at a gesture from Delenn. He nodded for the Alyt to go ahead and sat back down, waiting until the room was empty but for himself, the Entil’zha, and Sheridan.

“What will you do now, Marcus?” Delenn asked carefully, folding her hands on the table.

“Entil’zha?” he asked, not sure what she meant. 

“You joined the Rangers to see that the Shadows were defeated. They have been. Where will you go now?”

Marcus shook his head. “I may have joined in anger, but I stayed because I believe in what the Rangers do. The universe is not suddenly a safe place since one enemy is gone. There will always be those in need of protection, always secrets to be sought out and brought to light. I do not wish to retract my vows to the Anla’Shok, if there is still a place for me.”

Delenn smiled. “There will always be a place for you, Marcus. But I wonder where to send you, now that the war is over.”

Marcus frowned. “With the Ingata, I would have thought. The war may be over, but the work repairing the rift between the Castes has just begun.”

“You wouldn’t rather be stationed elsewhere, with humans?” Sheridan asked.

Marcus shook his head. “With respect, Captain, I don’t feel human any longer. I’m comfortable with the Minbari. It would take me a long time to get over the culture shock I’d get from spending time surrounded by humans again, if I ever did. They’d expect me to do and think certain things that I don’t, expect me to react in ways that I’ve trained myself out of. I could do it, but why? Few of the human Rangers are as comfortable living according to Minbari ways as I am; why put another in my place, someone who won’t get along as well with the Warrior Caste, and send me somewhere where I won’t fit as well as I do on the Ingata? Experience in a variety of areas is an asset, but that would be about as effective as signalling the First Ones by upending a bucket over my head and pretending to be the Vorlon god Booji.”

“We were thinking about sending you with Stephen to talk to some of the resistance movements on the colonies and Mars,” Sheridan offered, giving him a strange look for that last comment but evidently deciding he didn’t want to know.

Marcus snorted. “Captain, no one on Mars will trust me farther than they can throw me. The battle of the line was fought in their space! Anyone who goes in there wearing a Minbari uniform and carrying Minbari weapons is as good as dead! Send Garibaldi; he’s paranoid, but they’ll understand him.”

“I’m not sure I do anymore,” Sheridan admitted. 

“All the better. Captain, whatever happened to him, it wasn’t the Shadows,” Marcus leaned forward intently. “They leave a distinct taint behind. You know that. Which means that someone else tampered with him, for a reason. They knew he held a high position on Babylon 5; either he’s feeding someone information, or he’s a sleeper agent. Either way, he needs to be removed from the station without letting them know we’re on to him. What better way than a clandestine mission? At the very least, it’ll buy us time.”

“It is a good idea, John,” Delenn agreed. 

“I don’t like it,” Sheridan objected. “Too much could go wrong. We don’t know anything about who took him, or why.”

“Precisely, Captain. We don’t know. All he’s doing here is becoming steadily more hostile and paranoid. Get him off the station, before you have more to worry about than a paranoid security chief,” Marcus advised, deadly serious. “Tell him you want your best protecting Stephen, that the Mars resistance won’t trust a Ranger. All of that is true. Then see what happens.”

Sheridan clearly didn’t like it, but he nodded grudgingly. “Fine. I’ll let them know in the next few days. Now, about your posting. I’m just not sure we’d be doing right by you, leaving you with the Warrior Caste after the way you and Neroon fought.”

Marcus shook his head. “What can I say that will assure you I’m content with my current post?”

“Explain this culture shock thing to me,” Sheridan suggested. “What exactly are you having trouble with, when you’re with humans?”

Marcus sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. “I hardly know where to begin.”

“John is familiar with some of our customs, Marcus,” Delenn assured him. “I have been teaching him.”

“I suppose I can start there,” Marcus agreed. “Captain, for a moment, I want you to forget everything Delenn has shown you.”

Sheridan gave him a strange look.

“Trust me,” Marcus smiled tightly.

Sheridan shrugged. “All right.”

Marcus took a deep breath, and cleared his mind. “Minbari,” he began, “Are not as much like humans as you think.” He paused. “Forgive me for saying this, but you are used to dealing with Delenn, and to a lesser extent Lennier. Delenn has not been truly Minbari for a long time, possibly since she first took up the post here as Ambassador. Probably before that; if Minbari souls have been being reborn as humans for as long as we think, then there must have been souls that crossed back and forth between lifetimes; I suspect Delenn’s spent most of the past thousand years on the human side of the equation.”

Sheridan looked like he was about to interrupt, and Marcus held up a hand.

“I’m not saying this to insult her, Captain, nor am I agreeing with the factions on Minbar who think she isn’t one of their people anymore. She is. But she’s lived among other races more than any other Minbari, travelled farther than most. She’s picked up habits and thought patterns that she never would have had to this extent, if she’d stayed with her people. It’s only become more pronounced since her transformation. Delenn, can you tell me honestly that if you were to return to Minbar, you wouldn’t find some of their attitudes odd, even uncomfortable, now? That you could fit in, even among those in power?”

“No,” Delenn admitted after a moment. “I cannot. I don’t think I ever could have made those statements. I had never thought about it that way.”

Marcus nodded. “Now, reverse that. I wasn’t very comfortable around humans even as a child; I always did things just a bit differently than my peers. When I went to Minbar, I found a group of people who thought the way I did, who believed in the same things, who followed traditions I could understand. Just as you did when you came here, and began to know the humans on the station.”

“I understand,” Delenn said. “You are Id’Minbari; your soul found its kin on my homeworld. It could not find such among your own people.”

Marcus nodded. “Now, I could return to a primarily human outpost. But I would always be alien to them.”

“But humans from different countries do that all the time,” Sheridan objected. “I can’t see that you’d be any different from them.”

Marcus shook his head. “Captain, fundamentally, no matter how different our cultures are, we are all human. The Minbari are not. They are aliens, their biology is different, and their behaviour is different. All you have to do is look at our literature to prove that. There are points where no possible similarity can be found.”

“Give me an example,” Sheridan demanded.

“Sex,” Marcus said bluntly.

Sheridan blinked, and turned slightly red, but obviously didn’t understand. “What?” he asked.

“Personal relationships, then,” Marcus offered. “You’re accustomed to holding Delenn in public, to seeing her walk about with her arm linked with Lennier. These are human habits she’s picked up. Other than certain formalized gestures, particularly of greeting or parting, Minbari simply don’t touch. It’s not even a cultural thing; it’s biological. They aren’t wired to connect with each other that way. I can’t think of a single human settlement I’ve ever been to where someone who rigidly didn’t touch others wouldn’t be noticed, and have to answer awkward questions.

“Now, extend that farther. If they don’t have the same need for physical contact, then what about familial or romantic relationships? Humans fall in and out of those all the time. It’s all through our literature and history. Everything revolves around love, and sex, not necessarily in that order. The Minbari don’t have any of those expectations. Their history and literature revolves around service, Clan identity, rituals and traditions. It’s not an empty existence, don’t give me that look. They aren’t less than we are, because they feel differently and express it differently. How did you become a first contact specialist?”

Sheridan blinked, the surprise – and probably a good dose of pity – still obvious on his face. “I guess I just assumed that every species felt the need to reproduce, that sex was an integral part of all life.”

“And it is,” Marcus agreed, “But not always the same way, Captain. The Minbari believe groups of souls travel together; you think it’s just a superstition, like the human belief in soul mates. It isn’t. It’s more like a kind of imprinting; some earth species do it as well. Like wolves. They don’t mate with whichever attractive person comes along; they imprint on a single individual. Even if their mate dies, they won’t imprint on anyone else. It’s possible for the imprinting to go only one way, of course, and it’s the greatest tragedy the Minbari can contemplate when that happens. Humans expect to endure unrequited love at some point; it’s practically a rite of passage. But to the Minbari, the best ending that can come of it is suicide; at worst, the one afflicted will take several others with them. We’re simply wired differently, and it isn’t comfortable being part of a crowd of people who assume you’re thinking something you actually aren’t.”

“But you’re human,” Sheridan objected.

“Yes,” Marcus agreed. “And carrying this particular example forward, I’m therefor capable of feeling a certain level of attraction for more than a single person, but I’m Minbari enough that the urge to act on it simply isn’t there. I’m thirty-six years old, Captain, and I’ve only been so much as kissed, rather chastely, once. This is normal for a Minbari, and practically unheard of for a human outside of religious orders.”

Sheridan gave him a bug-eyed look for a moment, switched his stare to Delenn, then sighed. “Can I assume there are a lot of other areas where we’re equally different?”

Marcus nodded. “You can,” he assured, “And you should. And after living with them for the past few years, the only way you’d be able to tell me apart in a crowd is by my hair. Even the other human Rangers think I’m too Minbari.”

”That much is true,” Delenn agreed. “Sech Durhan commented on it in his reports.”

Sheridan thought for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. You’re on permanent assignment to Minbar, although we may pull you from the Warrior Caste at some point. Good luck, Marcus. I’m glad you’ve found somewhere to call home, after Arisia.”

Marcus smiled, stood, and bowed. “Arisia was never home, Captain. Only the people I loved. Thank you.” He left the room, knowing Sheridan and Delenn would have much to talk about. He didn’t think she’d ever really explained the Minbari to him. He also didn’t think she’d realized how far she’d drifted from her people; these days, she was more human than Marcus himself was. She needed to start acknowledging that; she couldn’t continue trying to exist fully in both worlds. It would tear her and them apart.

***

“Well?” Neroon asked as they sat down to dinner in his quarters aboard the Ingata. The warship would be docked with Babylon 5 for a few days while repairs were completed, then they were scheduled to report back to Minbar to brief the Council in person. Marcus was looking forward to seeing the Star Riders estate again even after so short an absence, and he could tell Neroon was as eager as he was to hold their daughter.

“I’m permanently assigned to Minbar, and the liaison to the Warrior Caste for at least a little while longer,” Marcus smiled.

Neroon smiled back. “I’m glad. Have you given any thought to our future?” 

Marcus nodded. “The four months are over. I talked to Lennier a lot, about what to expect, but I thought I’d be safest following your lead. He could only explain the rituals all the Castes follow, not those specific to yours.”

Neroon reached over to touch his hand lightly where it rested on top of the table. “Then, Marcus Cole of the Anla’Shok, I formally ask permission to begin courting you.”

Marcus blushed a bit, but nodded. “I grant permission, Alyt Neroon of the Star Riders. But I have neither family nor Clan for you to win me from.”

Neroon’s eyes twinkled at him. “Don’t worry. I have some ideas on that score; we’ll be able to fulfill the requirements of permission.”

“You fill me with dread,” Marcus chuckled. “Say on.”

Neroon shook his head. “It is best if you don’t know. Then you cannot be accused of twisting our traditions. It isn’t the first time a Warrior has had to be inventive to court an Anla’Shok.”

Marcus shook his head, greatly amused by Neroon’s attempt to look devious, and continued his meal. He couldn’t begin to guess what the Alyt had planned for the second of the fifty Warrior Caste courtship rituals – the first having just been concluded – but he was sure it would be entertaining to watch.

***

“Captain, may I request an audience with your command staff and Ambassador Delenn?” Neroon inquired, entering Sheridan’s office unannounced some days later. The Ingata was fully repaired, and would be departing the station the next morning. “Certain people will be joining us on a secure channel from Minbar, as well.”

Sheridan blinked in shock, but nodded. “Of course, Neroon. Is now convenient?”

Neroon bowed. “Quite.”

“You can use the Babcom unit there to raise Minbar, if you want,” Sheridan gestured to the wall unit that he was beginning to develop a complex about, given the number of times he’d been yelled at over it. “I’ll call the others here.”

Given how cryptic his summons was, he wasn’t really surprised when Ivanova, Garibaldi, and Stephen all entered the room before Neroon was finished placing his call to Minbar. Delenn was only moments behind them, Lennier trailing her. Sheridan shrugged. He didn’t suppose it was anything Lennier couldn’t hear, given the sensitive information the priest was already privy to.

“What’s going on, Captain?” Ivanova demanded, refusing to take a chair.

“I don’t know,” Sheridan admitted. “Alyt Neroon requested a conference.”

Ivanova sent the Alyt a venomous look, and Sheridan questioned the wisdom of having them in the same room. She’d never forgiven him for beating Marcus to a pulp. Sheridan only hoped she wouldn’t cause a diplomatic incident.

Minbari voices coming from his com unit confirmed the presence of the other members of the meeting, and he saw Delenn start in surprise. 

“Sech Turval?” She asked, as if she didn’t believe what she was seeing.

“And Durhan,” a rough Minbari who looked Warrior Caste popped up behind the more Religious-looking one on the screen. “What’s this about?”

“Yes, Neroon, I’d like an explanation as well,” Sheridan agreed. “Why are we here?”

If Sheridan didn’t know better he’d swear Neroon’s eyes twinkled at that. “That may be the most debated question in the history of sentient life, Captain. I am not qualified to give you an answer.”

“Not metaphysically!” Ivanova exclaimed, and Sheridan definitely heard the several uncomplimentary terms she didn’t voice tacked on to the end of it. “Literally! Here! In this office!”

“Ah,” Neroon bowed. “My apologies. My standard is not always fluent.”

Durhan let out an inelegant snort, but everyone else was silent. 

“Very well. You are here because I require your assistance in carrying out one of the rituals of my Caste.”

“There are no Warrior rituals that need humans,” Turval pointed out.

Neroon bowed to him. “No, there are not. But the second of the Warrior rituals leading to marriage is to ask permission of the family and Clan that your intended belongs to. To win them from their family. Once, this was accomplished through battle, but now it is simply a request, and a formality.”

“Congratulations!” Sheridan offered, when no one else seemed likely to respond to that statement. “But shouldn’t you be talking to her Clan on Minbar, then?”

Neroon began to look slightly uncomfortable. “He has no Clan. The one I wish to court is Anla’Shok. I must therefor ask the leaders of that organization, and those he considers family.”

“Marcus,” Delenn realized, putting it together faster than the rest of them. “That is why he wished to remain with the Ingata. You have spoken to him already.”

“Of course,” Neroon told her. “That is the first ritual.”

“You dirty rotten!” Ivanova exploded. Garibaldi seized her arm before she could cause a major incident. “After what you did to him?”

Neroon shook his head. “He challenged me to den’shah. The fight had to continue until there was a death. Otherwise we would both have been dishonoured.”

Garibaldi shook his head. “I’m never gonna understand you people.”

“Marcus Cole?” Turval asked, calming the room.

“Yes,” Neroon confirmed. “Marcus Cole. I formally request your permission to court him.”

“This will not be an easy road,” Delenn said, her voice worried. “Neroon, the Alien Prohibition -”

“If Valen’s Ban applies to the humans, then the Alien Prohibition should not,” Neroon thanked his father silently for that argument. “They cannot be part of our people and alien at the same time.”

“The Marka’ri Minsa will not see it that way,” Delenn argued. “They will seek to prevent this.”

“They will not know,” Durhan countered. “The Warrior Caste rituals are laid out differently; they will not know until after the courtship is finished. As long as his family agrees, they can get almost as far as the marriage ceremony before anyone else knows of this. And then, there will be few ways to stop him.”

“Unless one of us tells someone,” Stephen mused. 

Lennier glared fiercely at the doctor. “On Minbar, we would consider that an invasion of privacy, and the act of a coward. No friend of Marcus’ would cause him pain that way.”

Stephen shook his head. “I wasn’t suggesting it, Lennier. I was thinking out loud.”

“None of this is solving the problem,” Ivanova growled, “Which is that this… this… this Minbari! Has asked for something that we’re obviously not going to give him!”

“Why not?” Garibaldi asked.

“What do you mean, why not?” Ivanova yelled. “He tried to kill Marcus, and now we’re going to let him take him away like some bride in a bad historical romance?” She realized everyone was staring at her, and blushed. “Not that I read them.”

Sheridan shook his head. “Of course not.” He looked at Neroon. “I’ll need a bit more information, though. For humans, the practice of asking the Clan Elders for someone’s hand in marriage is considered rather barbaric. It implies that you consider Marcus property, ours to give, instead of his own man to make his own decisions.”

Neroon shook his head. “I do not understand. He is yours to give; he has sworn vows to you, bled for you, nearly died for you. Just as any of the Warrior Caste has for their Clan. It is your right to set conditions on our joining, or to refuse it entirely.”

“What kind of conditions?” Stephen asked.

“In the past, it has been such things as the children serving equal time with both Clans,” Durhan clarified. “Mostly, he is telling you that he wishes to take a Warrior of your Clan from you, and asking you to tell him if it will cause problems, and what he can do to lessen them.”

Sheridan nodded slowly. “I think I understand. I’m still uncomfortable that Marcus isn’t here to speak for himself, though.”

“Captain, when we reach Minbar, Neroon will not be present to speak for himself when Marcus goes before his parents to make the same request,” Lennier clarified. “I realize this is not part of your culture, but it is an important part of ours.”

Sheridan nodded. “All right, Mr. Lennier. A fair point.” He was still reeling a little from the discussion he’d had with Marcus about the differences between Minbari and Human cultures. As well as some warning signs he’d seen in Lennier that he’d dismissed as a harmless crush… “Is there a standard way to respond to this, after the yelling finishes?”

“Each member of the family speaks their thoughts in turn,” Durhan instructed. “The one with the highest rank speaks last.”

“I guess that means I go first,” Garibaldi muttered. “Way to put pressure on a guy. Hey, I don’t understand his taste, but if Marcus likes you, that’s good enough for me.”

Stephen shrugged, and nodded. “His decision. We can’t make it for him.”

“I can’t believe you two!” Ivanova snapped. “Oh, what the hell. I’m going to be outvoted anyway.” She turned to Neroon. “If you hurt him again, I’ll kill you.”

Durhan shook his head. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard. He’ll hurt Marcus. Marcus will hurt him. They’ll get over it. That’s the way relationships work, girl. Nobody’s perfect, and the people we love are the people with the best ammunition against us.”

“Fine, fine!” Susan exclaimed. “If he hurts him deliberately, then!”

“Still ridiculous,” Turval opined, “But I suppose it must be a human thing.”

“It is,” Sheridan confirmed, chuckling a little. “It’s a way of showing we care. It means she’s willing to give Marcus up, but if she thinks he isn’t being treated well, she’ll make her displeasure known.”

“Ah,” Neroon seemed a little relieved. “The Warrior Caste has a similar saying. I assure you, Commander Ivanova, I will do my best to keep Marcus from unnecessary harm, by my hand or any other. Will this do?”

Ivanova nodded grudgingly.

Sheridan shook his head. “It’s like herding cats,” he muttered. “Fine. If Marcus wants you, more power to you both. You know it won’t be easy, but this station will support you if you ever need our help.”

Neroon bowed, gratitude showing in his eyes although he didn’t voice it, and Sheridan realized with some shock that if he’d said no Neroon would actually have honoured it, despite his own wishes. Sheridan’s respect for the Minbari Warrior rose; he might be at odds with Delenn more often than not, but he was clearly a decent man underneath the posturing and condescension his rank demanded.

“I wish you both happiness and a long life together,” was all Lennier offered.

“The Rangers will stand with you,” Turval said. “There are enough friendships starting to cross species lines among our recruits, any blow to our xenophobic laws would be welcome. You have my personal blessing as well. Valen go with you.”

Durhan’s eyes were shadowed. “You are aware that, even if your Clan allows this, your Caste will object? You may keep your Clan name, but lose the right to call yourself a Warrior?” he asked carefully.

Neroon bowed. “Then I will apply to the Anla’Shok, that I might continue to fulfil the vows I made to serve those who cannot protect themselves. But I am confident it will not come to that.”

Durhan nodded. “No one’s ever been able to stand in the way of something you want, and I don’t imagine they’ll start now. I always thought you’d change the world, Neroon. I just never guessed how much. My arm is yours to call on, to wield shield or pike as needed.”

Neroon bowed low. “I am honoured, Sech.”

Durhan chuckled. “You should be.”

They all turned to Delenn, who would have the last word. She was frowning deeply. “I would like to give you my blessing,” she began. “But Neroon, of all our people, I know what you risk.” Her eyes shot to Sheridan, and he realized suddenly that she had never carried out this ritual. Was it only a ritual of the Warriors, or had she been so sure of her Clan’s objection that she hadn’t even asked them?

“I am aware of the risk, Delenn,” Neroon answered proudly.

“May Valen guide you. For in this, no one else can,” Delenn finally said, just when Sheridan began to think she’d actually put a stop to this. “And know that, though we have never been friends, and I am no Warrior, I will stand beside you.”

Neroon bowed again. “My mother is no Warrior. I learned long ago that this meant nothing, when it came to her children. I do not doubt you would fight as hard, for his sake. We have never been friends, no. And we never will be. But I begin to understand why Delenn of Mir was chosen above all others to bear the weight of prophecy.”

He bowed to the entire room. “I thank you for your permission. The Ingata must leave soon, so I go now to my ship. But you are the family of my ma’fela, and my sword and shield will be yours to command if you ever have need.” 

He turned and left the room, Lennier following, leaving a rather stunned gathering behind him.

“Well,” Turval finally offered over the still-open com line. “I think things just got very interesting for Minbar. If you’ll excuse us, we have classes to teach.”

***

“You’ll have to dress warmly,” Neroon said apologetically as he stepped into Marcus’ quarters to guide him to the shuttle bay. “It’s far colder on Minbar now than you're accustomed to.”

Marcus shook his head. “I saw the weather report, Neroon. It’s only a little over twenty below. Earth’s northern regions get that cold on a regular basis, and Arisia certainly did once you got out of the climate bubble. I’m not a hothouse flower, love.”

Neroon smiled at him. “I know. But I worry.”

“And it’s sweet, but I can manage,” Marcus returned, picking up his bags and brushing close to Neroon as he left the room. “Come on, I have to petition your family, and I’d like to get it over with.”

The Ingata had only been away from Minbar for a month, but in that time fall had faded gracefully into winter. the Ilriam region was blanketed in snow the like of which Marcus had never seen in his life; so far it only reached mid-shin, but he was assured it would get much higher by the end of winter. Combined with the massive white-crystal fortresses rising against a backdrop of snow-shrouded sort-of-pine forests and jagged mountains, he thought it might be even more beautiful than it had been in summer. 

“I can’t believe I can call this place home,” he whispered in awe as they stepped off the shuttle. His breath puffed out in a frosty cloud and his nose hairs froze within seconds, a phenomenon he’d accused Chad, one of the Ranger trainees who hailed from earth’s colder regions, of making up to see how gullible the others were. He thought about writing a note of apology to the other man, but shrugged off the impulse. 

“It is beautiful,” Neroon agreed, even bulkier than usual beside him. The Alyt had a heavy, floor-length black coat belted on over his armour replacing his usual sleeveless surcoat and a thick black cloak over the coat. His gauntlets had been replaced with fur-lined gloves of amazingly supple leather, his boots with similarly fur-lined additions, and a heavy scarf wrapped around his head. Marcus though he looked like a barbarian prince from his father’s legends, especially with the bonecrest mostly hidden under the scarf. His appearance was certainly helping Marcus stay warm, as well as giving him ideas he valiantly suppressed. Mostly. 

Marcus himself had switched to the Ranger’s winter uniform, with certain modifications. Similarly fur-lined boots and gloves had been provided by the Minbari. The human Rangers had dug into their own history for fur-lined hats; humans lost far more heat from their heads than Minbari did. He also wore very human longjohns underneath his uniform, as well as a coat and cloak in a similar style to Neroon’s. His isil’zha glittered at the throat of the cloak, and the entire ensemble was dark brown where Neroon’s was black, but otherwise he couldn’t really be told apart from the Minbari he stood beside.

Fewer of the Clan had braved the cold to greet them this time; only Neroon’s family and the families of his crew stood at the gates to usher them inside. The formalities of welcoming Marcus and Lennier back into the Clan as guests were concluded quickly, and the warmth that washed over them as they passed through the enclosed entry hall where cold-weather gear was stored was more than welcome. 

The drippy feeling of his nose hairs thawing was less entertaining, but going by the sniffles all around him he supposed it was an indignity he’d just have to learn to live with.

“Welcome back,” Neroon’s mother smiled at him as they moved through the inner door of the entry hall and into the estate proper. 

“It’s good to be here,” Marcus admitted. “You live in a beautiful part of Minbar.”

“If one of the harshest,” Ardminn agreed. “It made leaving the temples in Yed’oore much easier. Tell me of the war. You look uninjured?”

Marcus nodded. “I was lucky. The Ingata was lucky, actually; we took some damage, but very few casualties, even among the pilots. The rest of the galaxy wasn’t as fortunate, though. I love being here, but part of me is guilty that I am not out there, aiding those who suffer. Entire worlds were destroyed, species decimated, defences toppled. And still it goes on; no sooner are the Shadows defeated than the Narn and Centauri are ripping into each other like dogs. It’s hard to see the suffering, and not use my training to at least rescue the innocent. None of it touches Minbar; it’s hard to be here, where neither war really comes as anything other than a news report, when my mind is capable of supplying images of ravaged planets and dying children.”

Ardminn nodded seriously. “I know. It’s been a long time since tragedy touched Minbar; we don’t understand what the realities of life are, here in our sheltered little compounds. We see images of atrocities, and then return to our warm, safe homes and our healthy families and think nothing more of it. I can’t imagine what it must be like for those like you and my son who have seen it first hand, who are bound by your own vows to help, and who are trapped here.”

“I’m not sure if it makes it worse or better that I am here by choice,” Marcus admitted.

“If you are here, then the universe means for you to be here,” Ardminn offered reassuringly. “I do not believe in coincidences, Anla’Shok Cole.”

Marcus smiled. “You would have gotten along well with my mother. Neither did she.”

Ardminn smiled. “I would like to meet a human mother, to see if some things are universal.” She paused at the door to the same guest room that Marcus had used last time. “I will leave you here; Neroon will come get you when it’s time for the evening meal.”

Marcus bowed to her and entered his room, smiling to see it unchanged since he’d last left. The out-of-season rose blooming on the altar seemed to brighten with his presence, and he bent to inhale the scent happily before unpacking and losing himself in a good hot bath. Such wasn’t available often on the Ingata, but the Minbari had long ago realized the value of hot water in cold weather. Just because they didn’t use it to wash with didn’t mean they didn’t enjoy baths as much as any human he’d ever met. More than most, actually. 

He lost track of time while in the tub, and was still brushing his hair dry when Neroon rang the small hanging chimes beside his door. Marcus let him in and returned to the bathroom, apologizing for being late.

Neroon brushed the apology off. “I am early,” he called to Marcus’ retreating back, waiting until the human was completely in the other room before turning and bowing to the altar.

“I still have your permission to ask,” he told the rose quietly. “I do not understand what magic connects you to him, but you clearly represent his ancestors. May I have him as my mala?”

There was no audible response, but the rose seemed to glow briefly, and a very pleasant scent floated past his nose. He took it as a good sign. 

“Thank you,” he bowed to it again. 

“Talking to yourself, love?” Marcus asked, coming into the room and picking up his usual cloak, the isil’zha back in its normal place over his breast. 

“Not at all,” Neroon countered cryptically. “Come. Dinner is waiting, and so is our daughter.”

Marcus chuckled at the hardened Warrior’s obvious affection for the tiny girl, and followed his – now official – fiancé through the hallways of their home towards the family dining room.

Fara squealed when she saw them. “Marcus!” she yelled, throwing herself at the Ranger and trusting he would catch he before she hit the ground. He did so carefully, the impact moving him back a pace into Neroon’s solid bulk, and he smiled to think of spending a good deal of time in the future sandwiched this way.

“I begin to feel upstaged,” Neroon chuckled softly. “Obviously, you are far more interesting than I am.”

Marcus laughed at him. “She only likes me best because I’m nothing but a very large child myself,” he countered, tickling her until she shrieked with laughter and jumped out of his arms onto Neroon. “I think she’s part monkey,” he theorized, watching her wriggle up until she perched on the Alyt’s shoulders, hands clinging to his bonecrest.

“Monkey?” Ardiri asked, coming in amidst her usual cloud of flour and carrying the last of the dishes for the table. “What is a monkey?”

Marcus smiled. “I’ll find pictures for you after the meal. It’s an earth primate, a close evolutionary relative of humans. They’re very playful creatures, and we often compare our active children to them.”

Ardiri smiled. “We have no similar animal. Monkey. I like it. Tell us more about earth animals, while we eat? Minbar has so few native species. It must be wonderful to come from a world so full of life.”

Marcus knelt easily at the table and complied, and the meal passed in companionable and sometimes hilarious discussion as he gave a mini-lecture on earth’s major fauna, including gestures and noises in Fara’s direction when appropriate. She seemed particularly fond of the elephant.

As dinner wound to a close, Neroon stood carefully, balancing his daughter on his hip. “I think she’s had enough entertainment for one night. If you’ll excuse us?” he asked. Fara had finally run out of energy and collapsed onto her father a few minutes before.

Aalann dismissed them, and Marcus gulped as he realized that Neroon had given him the perfect opportunity to speak to his family. They would be undisturbed as long as they were in this room, and the room itself was soundproofed.

“You suddenly look worried,” Ardminn observed, passing him a tray of small flower-shaped pastries like nothing he’d ever tasted on any other world.

“I have something I must say to you, and I do not know if I will still be welcome in your Clan after I have said it,” Marcus began.

Aalann snorted indelicately. “The Star Riders do not revoke guest rights, Anla’Shok. Don’t insult us.”

Marcus bowed, acknowledging the point, but remained tense. “I wish to ask your permission to court your son,” he said, a little faster than he’d intended.

The only sound combating the dead silence his words invoked was the clatter of Ardiri's spoon dropping to the floor.

***

Marcus quietly let himself into Neroon's rooms nearly an hour later. The Alyt was seated at his desk scanning a report; he'd shed all of his armour and was dressed in a simple black house robe. Much as Marcus loved his fiancé in the armour, he had to admit that the softer look suited Neroon. Fara was curled up in pillows beside his desk, fast asleep.

Neroon looked up as he came in, worried eyes taking in Marcus' tense appearance. "Ma'fela?" he asked. "What is it?"

Marcus shook his head. "Nothing. At least your father approves of me."

"The rest of my family does not?" Neroon guessed.

Marcus shook his head. "Your sister accused me of breaking the laws of Minbar and the laws of nature. I thought she'd challenge me, despite not being a Warrior. Your father was worried, but cautiously approving. Your mother... I think your mother hopes we will find we do not suit each other; she seems willing to wait and see."

"What about Aunt Aalann?" Neroon asked. She was the only one who could truly stop the courtship now, since Marcus' family had given their blessing.

"I don't know. She just looked at me for a long time, then nodded and said I could try." Marcus sounded puzzled.

"Then we are not forbidden from anything; we must remain here to complete the rituals, and they will have time to see that you are worthy of what you ask them for. Time, Marcus. That is all it will take."

Marcus knelt down by Fara, brushing a soft hand over his daughter's partially formed bonecrest and pulling a blanket up around her carefully. "Time. It's always about time. And while I stay here in peace, others die that I could have saved."

Neroon leaned back and watched as Marcus almost absently continued petting Fara. The action looked almost instinctive, and he assumed human parents must calm their children by brushing their hair, because the gesture certainly had no purpose with a Minbari child; the bonecrest had no nerve endings at all. 

"Marcus," he finally said, when the comfortable silence had stretched as long as it could, "Why do you believe that you are the only one who can save the universe?”

Marcus looked up at him, startled. “I don’t…”

“You do,” Neroon countered. “You are one of the best Warriors I have ever known, but you are still only one man. How do you know that you will not do more good remaining here than you would travelling the stars like an avenging hero in one of the tales you have told me? You are not King Arthur, riding to glory with an enchanted sword. You are only Marcus Cole, and that is more than enough.”

Marcus’ eyes were wide with some emotion Neroon could not name. “What if it isn’t?” he asked.

Neroon lowered himself to the floor, and took the Ranger’s free hand in his. “You take yourself so lightly, and the causes you believe in so heavily. If there is a joke to be made you are at the center of it, but if there is a wrong to be righted you are in the vanguard of the fight. Now, it is time for you to put both aside. Here, you do not need to be always the jester. And there are others here to right the wrongs of the universe. Here, now, you need only be Marcus Cole. I suspect you haven’t been just that for a very long time.”

Marcus met his eyes, his own green dulled with worry, reminded of a similar conversation he’d had with Lennier when they first boarded the Ingata. “Who is Marcus Cole, Neroon? Who is he, without the jokes and without the causes and without the anger?”

Neroon smiled softly. “That is an easy thing to answer. He is an honourable Warrior, and he is my ma’fela. Everything else is just trappings. Even this.” Neroon flicked a finger at the isil’zha glowing softly on Marcus’ breast.

***

“Marcus?” Lennier’s voice cut through the human’s mental wanderings as he stepped out into the sheltered – but still freezing – courtyard. In the summer this yard had bloomed with many flowers found only in this region of Minbar. Now only slightly higher lumps in the snow revealed where their bushes lay.

“What is it, Lennier?” Marcus’ voice came from behind one of the largest lumps. 

Lennier picked his way over, and found the Human bundled against the cold staring up into the cloudless blue sky.

“What are you doing?” he asked his friend.

Marcus took a deep breath, and lowered his gaze back to earth. “Being,” he answered somewhat cryptically.

Lennier nodded. “I see.”

Marcus laughed lightly. “You know, I think you’re the only person on this entire estate who would?”

Lennier nodded. “That is certainly possible.”

“Why’re you here, Lennier? Not that I don’t welcome the company; I haven’t seen much of you since you and Helacann started in on that philosopher you both enjoy so much.”

Lennier bowed slightly. “For which you have my apologies; I never meant to desert a friend.”

Marcus waved him off. “Making new friends and spending time with them is a good thing, Lennier. I’m hardly offended because you’re finding a place for yourself. I’m happy for you, in fact.”

“What about you?” Lennier asked. “Are you finding a place here?”

Marcus nodded slowly. “It is… difficult. To try to remember who I am, when the things I have always defined myself by no longer matter. When I am not an EarthForce Officer, nor the leader of a colony, nor a Ranger on active duty. It is hard to be responsible for just myself. Hard to let go of the feeling that I’m responsible for so much more.”

“I know,” Lennier agreed. And he did. “But you are responsible for more than yourself here as well, Marcus. You are responsible for Neroon’s happiness, and for the stability of a charming young lady who just spent the afternoon introducing me to the most outrageous imaginary animal I’ve ever heard of. Would you believe she tried to convince me that a thing called an affulent exists on your world, that is bigger than houses and makes a sound like a trumpet out of a nose that touches the ground?”

Marcus stared at him, then burst out laughing. “It’s an elephant, Lennier. And they do exist.”

Lennier blinked. “I see. I was mistaken.”

“You were, but I appreciate the point. You think I don’t have to be responsible for life and death decisions on a large scale, to be responsible for bringing some good into the universe?” he wasn’t sure whether it was a statement or a question.

“No more than I need be responsible for Delenn’s entire being to make my life mean something,” Lennier offered quietly, and Marcus sobered at the reminder of what Lennier’s fate could have been, if he’d waited even a little longer to leave Babylon 5. “I think we are both better, for coming here.”

“Kosh thought we would be,” Marcus remembered. “And even though the Vorlons turned out not so nice in the end…”

“Yes, even though,” Lennier agreed, “I think Kosh was the best of them. What do you mean, he knew?”

“When we left Babylon 5,” Marcus said. “It was an old human poem. I won’t quote all of it to you, but the part that matters is near the end. ‘Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I, I took the road less travelled by, and that has made all the difference.’ Kosh said we were on the path less travelled.”

“I wondered what he meant by that, but I so rarely understood anything Kosh said,” Lennier admitted with a chuckle. “I did come out here for a reason, though. Aalann sent me to find you. It’s time for the third ritual.”

Marcus groaned. “If I didn’t love him…”

Lennier chuckled again. “You have no idea how often those words are uttered on Minbar. But we love so deeply, and so fiercely, that we can be dangerous to ourselves. The rituals grew out of a need to prevent that, to give the couple time to grow into each other.”

Marcus nodded. “Lead on, then. What is it this time? Wrestle dragons? Rescue damsels in distress?”

“In the Warrior Caste?” Lennier asked, confused. “I should think the damsels are quite capable of rescuing themselves.”

Marcus shook his head. “Never mind, human joke.”

“Ah.” Lennier pondered it for a moment. “In any case, you and Neroon are to be interviewed by his Clan matriarch. You’ve received permission to court him; now you have to be interviewed to see if you are worthy to become a Star Rider eventually. I shall attend as a representative of your family, if you will permit. Neroon’s mother will stand with him.”

“Permit?” Marcus nearly laughed with relief. “Lennier, I’d be overjoyed not to face them alone right now!”

Lennier only smiled. “You’ll win them over. You seem to have that effect on people.”

“What can I say?” Marcus asked innocently. “It’s a gift.”

They shook the snow from their cloaks, leaving them hanging beside a number of similar garments and moving through the quiet hallways of the family wing until they reached the door to Aalann’s office. Lennier rang the chimes, and Marcus shifted nervously, tempted to play with his denn’bok even though he knew how annoying it was. Before he could start, however, the door opened and he walked in, head held high to face the interview with as much charm, wit, and devastating humour as he could manage. Or so he told himself.

***

A valsta had passed since the interview, during which Marcus had done his best to charm the members of the Star Riders Clan he encountered in his rambles up and down the halls of the estate with Fara. The young girl was bored since a sudden cold snap had trapped her inside, and Marcus himself was tense waiting for Aalann’s decision after their interview. He thought he’d acquitted himself well, but he wouldn’t know until the fourth ritual was called for.

Lennier and Helacann often joined them in their games, the two young men opening up further to each other as time went on. Marcus, although he didn’t know Helacann well, could easily see the regard he had for Lennier and could see that most of the shadows of his infatuation with Delenn had vanished from the young priest’s eyes. He hoped that soon there would be another courtship in the offing.

They were interrupted in one such game – Marcus was down on his knees making growling noises as he chased Fara under a table, while the two Minbari looked on in astonishment – by Ardiri. It was the first time Marcus had been near Neroon’s sister since her harsh words when he’d asked permission to court her brother, and the ice in her eyes hadn’t thawed a bit.

“You are requested to dinner in the formal family room this evening,” she snapped frostily, frowning disapprovingly when Marcus caught his daughter up and set her on his shoulders to prevent her running off further down the hall. 

“I will attend,” Marcus acknowledged formally. 

“Good,” she snapped, turning to Lennier and Helacann. “You are also asked to attend.” She didn’t wait for a response before breezing off down the hall.

“What was that about?” Marcus asked when she’d gone beyond hearing range.

“The fourth ritual,” Helacann informed him. “Come, we’ll help you get ready.”

Marcus was grateful for their help. Left to himself, he’d have attended dinner in his Ranger uniform without a second thought. As it was, he took the advice of his friends and changed into the loose house robes favoured by the Warrior Caste when they were not on duty, made of a thick and warm black wool that complimented his colouring exceedingly well. He trimmed his beard neatly and tied his hair back with the ornate clasp he usually only wore for important ceremonies. With his denn’bok at his hip, he looked like a furry member of the Warrior Caste. Which, Helacann informed him, was the point. 

“You want to show that you’re serious about entering Neroon’s family. This will send a visual message,” the young aide commented as they hurried to the dining room. “Many of the gestures of the courtship are not rituals themselves, but are intended as subtle reminders of intent. If you skip them, it is not always noticed, but for you, it is best if you honour them as closely as possible.”

Marcus could only agree, as he stepped through the doors of the dining room and noticed the approving glance being sent his way by Aalann as he moved to his fiancé’s side. Dinner tonight was apparently restricted to the three of them and Neroon’s immediate family. 

Aalann rang a small set of chimes behind her place for silence. When she received it, she stood. “As Clan matriarch of the Star Riders, I have come to a decision.” She looked seriously at Marcus. “I welcome Marcus Cole into the ranks of the Star Riders Clan, not as a guest, but as the ma’fela of Neroon son of Ardminn. I extend formal Clan-right to him until his marriage, when he will become one of us. No longer is his arm ours to call on only in need; no longer is his shield to be raised only when our defences fail. From this day his arm shall rise without asking; from now his shield shall be linked with ours. Welcome, Marcus Cole.”

Marcus wasn’t really surprised that no one echoed Aalann’s welcome; Neroon’s mother and sister simply looked uncomfortable, and Helacann and Lennier were doing extremely effective impressions of wall hangings. Nerlin just met his eyes and nodded soberly.

Aalann glared at them all. “Have we forgotten the highest law of this Clan, held from before the time of Valen? That the calling of the heart should be considered over any other claim, whether it be family, Caste, or Clan, whether it be honour, blood, or death?”

“No,” they answered with varying levels of anger at the accusation and discomfort with the situation. 

“Is that courtesy extended only to those whose blood is pure?” Aalann demanded, fire in her eyes. “Do we think only those born to the Minbari can follow a heart’s calling that leads them to a path among our Clan?”

The no this time was firmer from Neroon’s parents, but more confused from his sister.

Aalann snorted. “Isolated to the point of idiocy,” she muttered. “How many times must this young man prove himself, before we honour him as one of our own?”

“But he isn’t!” Ardiri burst out. “He is not Minbari, Aunt Aalann, and however much honour he deserves, he never will be!”

“Even if his heart calls him to our ways?” Nerlin asked his daughter sharply. “Even if he forsakes his own people to join with ours, as your own mother did?”

Silence fell with a crash over the table, as Ardiri’s eyes widened, then shot between Marcus and her mother, before finally lowering. “I have shamed myself,” she muttered quietly.

“There is no shame in speaking your mind,” Marcus countered before anyone could agree with her. “I was not born Minbari, and you were right to defend the laws your people have built their lives around. You are Worker Caste; your duty and calling is to build up and strengthen the Minbari, not to weaken them by ignoring what laws you choose, when you choose.”

“Well said,” Aalann acknowledged. “Enough of this foolishness. He will be welcomed into this Clan upon their marriage, as any would be who found the calling of their heart led them here, as many have been in the past. Yes, even from outside the Minbari people,” she snapped. “Long ago. It is time our people remembered that we were not always so xenophobic. I say enough. Let the fourth ritual begin.”

She sat with a thump, and platters began passing slowly around the table, most of the diners clearly lost in thought. 

“I thought that was the fourth ritual?” Marcus queried, leaning over so Neroon would be the only one who heard his words.

Neroon smiled slightly. “No, that was the conclusion of the third. The fourth ritual is called the sharing of plates.”

“We eat off the same plate?” Marcus made a face. “That could be messy.”

Smothered chuckles from Neroon’s other side, where his mother sat, made them both look up, but she apparently had her attention turned elsewhere.

“Not the same plate,” Neroon clarified. “It’s designed to help us learn about each other. We are expected to select foods we enjoy, or that have some particular significance to us, and arrange them on a plate. We will then exchange these plates, and partake of each other’s tastes.”

Marcus’ eyes twinkled. “It’s a good thing this was never a human custom. I can think of a great number of arranged marriages in our history that would’ve ended before they began when poison was introduced to the table.”

“Your people made a habit of poisoning each other?” Lennier asked from across the table. 

Marcus chuckled. “Well, it was a subtle way of getting rid of an enemy. It was also one of the few methods women had of ridding themselves of someone for much of our history. Particularly in the European cultures, women were not permitted to learn any kind of fighting art or to carry weapons. They were perceived as weaker and in need of protection. But a ring filled with poison, either on a hidden needle or a compartment that could be emptied into someone’s drink? It took cunning, and a certain amount of ruthlessness, but we have a great many stories of particularly strong-willed ladies of high birth engaging in just such behaviour. It was all quite scandalous, of course,” his eyes twinkled.

His audience looked both intrigued and appalled. “Poison has never been popular on Minbar,” Helacann said.

“That’s because not enough of your wildlife can kill you,” Marcus countered, “Whereas Earth has an astonishing variety of venomous animals and plants just lying around waiting for you to commit accidental suicide.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand your people,” Aalann muttered cryptically.

The exchange of plates went well. Marcus recognized most of the food Neroon gave him, and blessed his fiancé for not choosing any of the flarn. He did have to ask for an explanation of a few of the items, and was amused to learn that Neroon had a surprising fondness for the bitter pickling method employed by the Minbari. 

Marcus, in his turn, had been somewhat limited by the Minbari-only dishes on the table. He determined that someday he would have to get his hands on some real Earth food, so he could return the favour properly. But he didn’t do too badly, selecting things like the first Minbari food he’d ever eaten (a curious little nut-like fruit grown at the far end of the southern continent) and certain favourites from his Ranger training. The gradual relaxing of tension around the table as dinner went on helped to alleviate some of his concerns; it appeared that it would, as Neroon had said, merely take time for them to get used to him. 

***

“What’s this?” Marcus asked, several days later, as Nerlin led him into the large training hall in the center of the Star Riders estate.

“The fifth ritual,” Neroon’s father answered, offering Marcus a leather tie to hold his hair back. “Public sparring. You have to prove that your skills are well-matched.”

Marcus shot him a puzzled look. “I can’t imagine your wife sparring with you.”

Nerlin shook his head. “My wife is Religious Caste; our rituals were altered accordingly. You, though, are a Warrior, although of a different tradition. You must fight.”

“The last time I fought your son, he nearly killed me,” Marcus admitted.

“Did you fight to win, or fight to die?” Nerlin countered. “This time, you fight for neither. The best outcome of this battle is an even match; you need not hold back, but nor do you need to throw yourself on his pike.”

Marcus slowly began to smile as what was about to happen sank in. “You mean, I have permission to use whatever fighting style I want, not just Minbari, and attempt to trounce Neroon in public?”

Nerlin nodded.

“I like this ritual!” Marcus exclaimed, reaching the edge of the sanded wooden sparring floor and removing his boots, stretching his muscles out carefully. He did katas and other exercises in one of the smaller gyms regularly, but this would be the first real fight he’d engaged in in some time. Neroon joined his father at the edge of the sparring ring.

“I thought you might,” Neroon grinned down at Marcus. “We will begin in moments; are you prepared?”

Marcus flattened himself along the ground one last time, bending his body in a way he knew was impossible for those watching him, then sprang to his feet. “Oh yes,” he crowed, taking his pike in one hand and starting out onto the floor. 

He paused a few feet in, noticing that Neroon wasn’t following, and looked back over his shoulder. His fiancé’s eyes were slightly glazed, and he was staring fixedly at Marcus with a decidedly predatory glint. Marcus realized what kind of a view his stretching had given, and blushed slightly.

“See something you like?” he called softly to the Alyt, using Standard to avoid embarrassing him any further than he already was.

Neroon shook himself vigorously, and moved into the ring after Marcus. “Always,” he growled, voice only slightly huskier than normal. 

“Ready spar!” the same crier that had directed the Council of Elders some weeks ago stood at the edge of the ring.

“Judges ready?” he asked.

Three evenly spaced Minbari called back an affirmative. 

“Watchers ready?” 

The crowd of Star Riders yelled their response, the crew of the Ingata – who had seen Marcus fight, although never against their Alyt – the loudest of them all. Most of the crowd knew only that their Alyt and a human Ranger were about to demonstrate their skills and different styles; only Lennier, Helacann, and Neroon’s family were aware of the deeper meaning to the day.

“Fighters ready?” 

Marcus and Neroon grinned fiercely at each other, and responded with the snick of their denn’boks opening and clacking together in salute.

“Begin spar!” Vashaer ordered. 

Marcus didn’t have to be told twice. As the lower end of Neroon’s pike snapped up quickly, expecting to meet his in a first position parry, Marcus dropped to the ground and rolled under the Minbari’s extended arm, coming up behind him and whirling to strike in a position that owed more to the fighting monks of Japan than the Warrior and Tha’Domo trained Rangers.

Neroon’s eyes narrowed, then glittered with challenge, and the fight was on in earnest. Marcus pulled tricks from every fighting art he’d ever studied, ranging around the earth and through no small number of its allied worlds, using Minbari techniques only when he figured Neroon was so used to being thrown off-guard that the familiar would come as a complete surprise.

Neroon, for his part, showed a surprising knowledge of dirty street-fighting tactics more common to the Narns than the Minbari and held his own quite well, getting in as many lucky blows as Marcus did although they were both doing their best not to strike each other with more than bruising force. For every spin, dodge, and leap Marcus performed that was too fast and too flexible for a Minbari to match, Neroon lashed out with a blow that drove him back several paces closer to the edge of the ring, far too powerful for a human to return in kind. 

Neroon lashed out again; Marcus literally danced to the side, performing quick waltz steps as he slid along the edge of Neroon’s pike. He dropped to the ground, lashing out with his leg and attempting to sweep the Alyt off his feet. Neroon leaped back, and Marcus saw an opening he would never get again, once Neroon figured out what he’d done wrong. Quicker than any Minbari opponent could have, Marcus leaped back onto his feet, twisting in underneath Neroon’s guard and laying his pike along his fiancé’s throat. The crowd, which neither of them had really registered cheering, fell into a dead silence.

“Do you yield?” Marcus asked. His pike was positioned for a killing blow, but a warrior of Neroon’s calibre knew more than one way out of such a situation. Marcus wondered which he’d take.

Neroon smirked, and before Marcus could register the movement he barely caught out of the corner of his eye, Neroon’s pike had connected with the back of his knee, sending him down to kneel at Neroon’s feet. Both their pikes now rested at each other’s throats, and Vashaer stepped into the ring again, breaking their locked gazes.

“The spar is an even match!” he declared once the Star Riders had quieted. 

Marcus accepted the aid of Neroon’s arm to get to his feet, and smiled across at his Minbari. “Why do I get the feeling that the Clan will think that’s more important than Aalann’s declarations?”

Neroon snorted. “They’re Warriors, Marcus.”

Marcus only chuckled, and led the way over to accept the congratulations and requests for demonstrations that were pouring in as the viewing stands emptied out onto the sparring floor.

***

Marcus was so busy answering requests of fighting demonstrations for the next few days that he barely had time to notice that Neroon and Lennier were plotting together. When he did, he shrugged it off; he trusted both of them not to do anything too evil.

A trust, he reflected several mornings later, that he should have considered more carefully.

“You want me to what?” he asked, staring at the wire-and-wood triangular contraptions balanced against the wall.

“The sixth ritual,” Neroon informed him, an unholy twinkle lighting his eyes. He held Fara on his shoulders in self-defence; Marcus wouldn’t hit him as long as their daughter was balanced so high above the ground. He hoped.

“Includes being strapped onto those things?” Marcus asked, the disbelief still strong in his voice.

“It’s a survival excursion, Marcus,” Lennier offered, hiding behind the broader form of the Alyt. “You have to prove that you can provide for each other without the resources of the Clan.”

Marcus rubbed his temples. “You want me to pick up a backpack containing the bare essentials as far as cold-weather survival goes, strap those things on my feet, and head out into an Ilriam winter to survive on what I can hunt for two days?”

“Hunt and gather,” Lennier reminded him. “And Neroon will be there to help you, as will Nerlin and I. We’re your chaperones. And it’s still early winter; only about 20 below freezing, and the snow isn’t more than knee high yet.”

“Brilliant,” Marcus snorted. “We couldn’t do this one in summer, instead?”

“Well, you could,” Lennier admitted. “If you want to wait another nine months to continue.”

Marcus groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “Give me the snowshoes, Lennier.”

Lennier, thankfully, didn’t even hint at a smile as he passed over one pair and seized another for himself. “Are we ready to go?”

Neroon hugged Fara and passed her off to his mother, who was watching them and making no secret of her amusement. As Religious Caste, she of course had performed a different – and much less frosty – version of the same ritual. She sent Marcus a sympathetic smile as the young man trudged past her, snowshoes slung over one shoulder. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about his presence; overjoyed that her son had found his match at last, but deeply troubled by the pain she knew lay in his future, when he would be forced to defend that match to all of their people. Still, it was hard to know the cheerful, irreverent young human and not like him. Perhaps all would turn out for the best.

“This is all your fault,” Marcus grumbled as they hiked deeper into the snow-dampened woods surrounding the Star Riders estate. “You couldn’t have been a carpenter. No, that would have been too easy.”

Neroon chuckled at his ma’fela’s grumbling. “Marcus, if I had been a carpenter, you would be spending these two days helping me select the perfect tree to be turned into our marriage table.”

Marcus sent him a disbelieving look.

“It’s quite true,” Nerlin offered. “Each Caste has their own rituals, but they all follow a basic pattern. If he’d been Religious like his mother, you’d have sought out a wilderness shrine and communed for two days. I had to find food for both of us; it’s luck we courted in summer.”

Marcus rolled his eyes, but finally found the humour in the situation. “All right. I just hope you have some way of keeping me warm at night!” he joked.

Several hours later, after a meal of what he could only call snow-hare, even though it wasn’t, he had cause to regret those words. Lennier and Nerlin took their chaperoning duties seriously; Marcus was wedged into the center of the two-man snow cave he and Lennier had dug out, the packs surrounding him against the walls and Lennier a solidly warm bulk between him and the door. He sighed, resigned himself to the situation, and got some sleep. Tomorrow would be another long day of frosty camping – something he wasn’t yet ready to admit he was enjoying more than he’d enjoyed anything in a long time.

***

“The seventh ritual will take place at sundown in the Clan temple,” Lennier informed him as they sank into the hot communal bathing pool located near the sparring hall. Larger, warmer, and far more luxurious than the private tubs in their rooms, they’d headed for it immediately after returning from their wilderness excursion. Marcus was quietly very proud of his young friend. Lennier, though no Warrior, was holding his own with them quite admirably while acting as Marcus’ family and chaperone during the rituals.

“Is it going to involve more snow?” Marcus asked dryly.

Lennier shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. Actually, you could probably combine the seventh and eighth rituals if you wanted. The seventh is the Vows of Shielding – it’s the first of a set of four vows you have to take before you’re married. The exact wording doesn’t matter, but you have to swear to guard his back, fight for him when he’s injured, that kind of thing. You can say it however you wish.”

“And the eighth ritual?” Marcus asked, deeply mistrusting the twinkle in Lennier’s eye.

“Your first kiss,” the priest reported, face suspiciously blank of expression.

Marcus smirked. “Too late for that.”

Lennier gasped. “Marcus!” he exclaimed. “You anticipated the rituals?” he sounded quite shocked, but the twinkle in his eye was even more pronounced.

“Mmm-hmmm,” Marcus smiled, wearing what his father would have called a cat-ate-the-canary smile. Briefly, he wondered what the equivalent was here; were there any small birds that tempted the goks the way canaries seemed to tempt cats?

“I’m shocked,” Lennier declared.

“No you’re not,” Marcus countered. 

Lennier gave it up. “All right, I’m not. And it doesn’t have to be your first kiss; it very rarely is, in fact. But it’s your first public, acknowledged kiss. It means you have the right to kiss him, when you wish, because you’ve done so in front of his family. You’re lucky we’re not using the old-fashioned form of the ritual. It’s a bit more intimate.”

Marcus laughed. “You people never cease to amaze me. What is it with the ritual sex?”

Lennier chuckled. “Well, since we don’t generally desire anyone we haven’t imprinted on, it doesn’t cause any problems for a couple to be overheard, or even seen – none of the witnesses are going to suddenly lust for one of the participants. So we can watch, to make sure that an imprinting is going well, without any repercussions.”

“Makes sense,” Marcus admitted. “But secretly, your entire race is a bunch of voyeurs.”

“Perhaps,” Lennier smiled. “But that won’t get you out of kissing him before his family.”

Marcus smiled. “Like I’d want to. I think I’ve pruned myself enough; I’d best get ready. Sundown, you said?”

“Yes,” Lennier acknowledged. “You have just enough time to – primp for him, is the human expression?”

Marcus’ jaw dropped, and he glared at his friend. “If I was a woman!” he retorted. “On the other hand,” he mused, “A little primping might be good for me.” His walk grew deliberately swishier as he departed the bathing room, although he had no intention of doing anything too outrageous. Maybe a black ribbon in his hair?

In the end, he met Neroon at the temple dressed again in the simple black wool robes he’d worn to their formal dinner, although his hair was indeed held back with a black ribbon borrowed from one of Fara’s dolls. The girl had been only too happy to part with it, and had insisted on helping tie the rather lopsided bow. Ardminn’s lips twitched suspiciously when she saw it, but she kept silent as her son and future son came to stand before her.

“We come to hear the vows of Marcus Cole and Neroon of the Star Riders,” she said. “May the universe also hear, and remember.” She stepped aside, her role as family priestess completed, and took her place as mother to watch her son pledge his life to another. Seeing the emotion shining in eyes a shade of green never found on Minbar, she felt more of her misgivings fade. Glancing sideways at the rest of her family she caught a thoughtful look replacing the frown that had so often graced her daughter’s face recently.

“I, Neroon of the Star Riders, pledge my shield to Marcus Cole. I will guard his back when he fights, guard his rest when he is weary, guard his healing when he is injured, and stand aside when I know he must guard himself,” Neroon vowed quietly but certainly.

“I, Marcus Cole of the Anla’Shok, vow to be shield to Neroon of the Star Riders. I will watch over him, stand between him and danger, hold fast when he is injured, and believe in his strength when I know he must shield himself,” Marcus vowed in turn, the words an older form of the vow once commonly used by all Warriors, before the more personal touches had been added in recent generations. 

Ardminn was impressed, both with the research this implied and the commitment it showed the young human had to Minbari traditions and history. Perhaps it was true, what her husband had been suggesting. Perhaps, improbable as it sounded, this really was a Minbari soul, come to them in an alien form, but no less a part of their people.

Marcus was unaware of his future mother’s tumbling thoughts, caught up in Neroon’s dark stare.

“I’m told we’re allowed to kiss now,” Marcus murmured conversationally, as if he couldn’t care less.

“We are,” Neroon confirmed.

“Good,” Marcus grinned, “Because I’ve been wanting to do this for a very long time.”

Before the surprised Minbari could react, Marcus had his fiancé bent back in the classic earth pose of a ravished heroine, and proceeded to snog the life out of him in front of his mildly shocked family and Lennier, who had been exposed to enough of earth’s culture to find the entire situation hilarious.

Neroon only remained shocked for a moment before seizing the upper hand, using his greater strength to push Marcus upright and back into the wall behind them. He couldn’t believe how good it felt, to finally be allowed to kiss his ma’fela. He didn’t want to stop; the human tasted like the snowberries that grew in Ilriam in the spring, berries Neroon had made himself sick on as a child more than once. It was addictive; it was glorious; it was – 

The sudden thwack of a denn’bok across his hands where they gripped Marcus around the waist brought him back to his senses, and he broke away only far enough to glare at his father.

Nerlin was impervious. “Unless you want to resurrect the tradition of the Fal kas’zha Mer’cha, I suggest you let go of each other.”

Marcus turned an improbable shade of red. “Does that translate to what I think it translates to?” he called to Lennier. He hadn't seriously thought anyone still practiced that ritual.

“If you think it translates to public love-making, then yes,” the young priest answered evenly.

Marcus buried his face in Neroon’s shoulder. “May the floor swallow me whole,” he muttered.

Neroon’s arms tightened slightly. “Marcus, will you do me a favour?” he asked roughly.

Marcus nodded.

“Choose your words more carefully in the future,” Neroon begged. “That image is not helping.”

Marcus’ blush deepened, but he began to see the funny side of the situation as well. “When they say Minbari puberty waits until after you imprint on someone, they aren’t kidding, are they?” he asked, looking up at Neroon’s eyes, even darker than usual now as he clutched Marcus close.

“No,” Neroon agreed, “They aren’t. I think I may kill anyone who comes near you right now.”

Marcus nodded. “Well, since biologically at least I’m immune to most of that, if I leave, will you calm down?” he wasn’t sure he’d be able to leave, given how loudly certain parts were protesting the unwelcome interruption, but he’d really rather not be deflowered on a stone floor in front of his fiancé’s parents, either.

“I think so,” Neroon guessed, and loosened his grip slightly. Marcus knew he’d have bruises tomorrow, but couldn’t find it in himself to care. “If you go now.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. Trailed at a safe distance by Lennier, Marcus made a quick escape to his room, going directly to the bed and wrapping himself in the memory of Neroon pinning him to the wall. The beds in the Star Riders estate bore as much resemblance to the tilted planks on the White Stars as any earth military bunk did to a proper bed in a proper house; much larger, far more comfortable, and piled high with thick blankets, the mattress rested in a proper frame – if a tilted one – rather than on an easily dismantled platform. Actually, once you got used to the slight tilt, they were quite comfortable, and before Marcus knew it the events of the past several days caught up to him, and he fell into very pleasant dreams indeed.

***

"Have you recovered from the last ritual yet?" Ardminn asked him a couple of days later, as he strolled through the long hall of ancient weapons displayed near the sparring hall.

Marcus chuckled. “I hope I never recover from it.”

“I felt the same way about his father. Fortunately, I never have,” Ardminn admitted, falling into step with him, pausing when he did to admire some of the well-crafted weapons the Clan thought worthy of a place here.

“Did you have something to ask me?” Marcus finally inquired, when they’d walked in silence for some time.

“I’m trying to see things through your eyes,” Ardminn offered. “My son took time to see the universe as you do, and he fell in love. I want to understand.”

“You don’t seem happy about his choice,” Marcus observed.

“What mother would be?” she asked. “I do not like to see my children face hardship or pain, and in choosing you, he has opened himself to both.”

“Your son is a Warrior, Lady,” Marcus defended.

“But he is still my son, Anla’Shok.”

Marcus thought for a moment. “Once, not so very long ago, earth was divided rigidly along many lines. Some of them still exist. Lines of religion, of skin colour, of gender. Of sexual orientation. There were long and bloody wars fought, there was brutal slavery, and there were fanatics and atrocities on all sides, not just the side of the oppressor.”

“It must have been a dark time,” Ardminn guessed.

“I think it was. And humanity obviously didn’t learn enough from it, or the war with your people would never have occurred. But in the midst of all of that there were always those who simply wanted to live, quietly, to the best of their ability. They did not want to be spokespeople for their groups. They did not display their lives for others to gawk at. They simply lived, and in doing so, I think they did more to change the world and offer an example to others than any of their kind who screamed obscenities from the rooftops and forced themselves into the public eye.”

“And this is what you wish with my son.”

“Yes,” Marcus said.

“I will keep watching,” Ardminn declared, “But I think I will welcome you into my Clan, Marcus Cole. You have the heart of a Star Rider, a heart my son and my mala saw more clearly than I did even though it is my duty to see such things before they do. I have learned something from this.”

“I’m glad to help,” Marcus smiled.

“I shall think more on this,” she decided, turning away from him to take a branching hallway further into the interconnected buildings. “You should come to the temple in an hour; the ninth ritual will be conducted there.”

“What is it?” Marcus asked. After the last one, he wasn’t sure he trusted rituals conducted in the temple.

“A shared light meditation, to see if you are as compatible in silence as in battle,” Ardminn told him, then took her leave.

***

“The tenth ritual will be somewhat complicated,” Lennier admitted as he and Marcus sat at a pair of interconnected computer terminals, catching up on dispatches from Babylon 5 and from the Ranger training facility in Tuzan’oore. 

“How complicated?” Marcus asked, frowning at the carefully worded message from one of his contacts on the station. He didn’t like the subtler implications of what he was reading; earth and Minbar were both teetering on the brink of civil war, and he was spending his days playing in the snow like a child. At least he didn’t have to feel guilty about keeping the Ingata grounded. Neroon had turned command over to his friend Hedronn, telling the Council of Elders that he wished to spend some time settling his new daughter into his Clan and that Hedronn was a better choice than he to command the flagship of the Warrior Caste. As an explanation, it had the advantage of being completely true. The warship had departed a few days before, after the Council had finally been satisfied with all of the officer’s reports on the war.

“Your Clans have to meet,” Lennier informed him absently, attention mostly taken up by reports of his own.

It was enough to pull Marcus’ attention completely back into the room. “Lennier, I don’t have a Clan.”

“I know,” the priest responded absently. “No Anla’Shok does. That’s Why Durhan, Turval, and Delenn will be coming here at the end of the valsta.”

Marcus gulped. “Delenn is coming to the home of the Star Riders?”

Lennier shrugged. “Officially, Delenn is stopping over to pay her respects to Ardminn while she is on a pilgrimage to the Temple of Vareni.”

Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “No one goes to the Temple of Vareni unless they are called there for one of the ancient ceremonies, Lennier. What’s going on?”

Lennier tossed a data crystal on the table between them. “She’s been called home by her Clan, to face the Dreaming.”

Marcus shook his head. “I’m not familiar with it.”

“You wouldn’t be. It isn’t often used. They wish to stop her marrying Sheridan, so they will drug her and leave her in a room in the Temple, where she will relive significant events in her life. Most of them will be terrible, and all will be open to her Clan Elders to view.”

“That’s barbaric,” Marcus objected. 

“It is their right,” Lennier defended. “She is breaking laws and traditions laid down since before the time of Valen. They must understand, and this is the only way the Religious Caste has of doing so.”

“You approve of this?” Marcus asked, shocked.

“No,” Lennier denied, “I do not. But I do not approve of the den’shah, either, whatever the reason or the outcome. First that has been brought back as more than a formal exhibition, and now the Religious Caste opens the halls of Dreaming. What next? What other ancient and outgrown rituals will my people return to, now that Valen’s Peace disintegrates around us? I cannot believe how little we learned in a thousand years of peace.”

Marcus smiled slightly. “Your people had a thousand years of peace; my people had a thousand years of the bloodiest wars you can imagine. And we didn’t learn anything either. Maybe there isn’t anything to learn, Lennier. Maybe this is all there is; life, and living it.”

Lennier shot him an odd look. “You might have made a fair philosopher, in a different life.”

“Perhaps I was, in a different life,” Marcus agreed.

“In any case, they will be here in four days. There will be a formal dinner, but you aren’t expected to do anything; all you and Neroon have to do is attend.”

“At least promise me no one will be showing baby pictures,” Marcus begged.

Lennier gave him an odd look.

“That isn’t a Minbari custom?”

“The purpose of this dinner is for the families to assure themselves that the Clan their future son or daughter comes from is sensible. How would baby pictures fit into this?”

Marcus chuckled. “Humans have a similar custom, but seem to feel the urge to display the entire lives of their children, often sharing embarrassing or highly personal details. Especially when the children are in the room.”

“Ah,” Lennier commented. “I see. That will come after the dinner; Durhan and Nerlin will dissect your most painful moments in training, and Ardminn and Delenn will commiserate on your hopeless disregard of the higher powers of the universe, and all will be well.”

Marcus laughed. “It’s good to see some things never change. Now, tell me what you think of this report.” He passed over a data crystal detailing the odd movements of a group of men on Babylon 5, obviously better off than lurkers but not showing any signs of an actual profession. 

“It appears as though they’re looking for something, or waiting,” Lennier offered after scanning the report.

“That was my thought, but I don’t like the questions they’re asking about the command staff. They’re too careless in some truly odd ways; it’s like they planned on one thing, and are having to rearrange their plans around a missing element.”

“A Garibaldi-sized element?” Lennier guessed.

Marcus brightened. “That’s it!” he exclaimed, plugging in several other data crystals and beginning to track patterns of behaviour, as well as composing a return dispatch to his people on Babylon 5. “Fortunately, Mr. Garibaldi is well out of their reach; he and Stephen should be reaching Mars shortly after Delenn reaches us.”

“Good luck to them,” Lennier offered. 

“And to us,” Marcus agreed, before burying himself in layers of intrigue like nothing he’d ever seen before. He couldn’t even imagine what kind of mind had put together the layers of plots he was beginning to suspect; he wasn’t even sure it was human anymore. Had all of the Shadows really gone beyond the rim? Because the potential for chaos here was at a level they would have truly appreciated.

***

Fortunately for Marcus’ peace of mind, the meeting between the Star Riders and the Rangers was brief. Delenn was clearly preoccupied, worried about her own courtship and the ordeal she was set to undertake, and she went through the motions of the formal dinner without seeming to register where she was. Durhan and Turval conversed quietly with Neroon’s family, but it was clear no one really knew what to say. Marcus was more than glad to escape with Fara when she began nodding on his shoulder; he felt guilty for leaving Neroon to face the uncomfortable room alone, but not badly enough to rejoin them. 

Lennier would be leaving in the morning; he had promised a frightened Delenn that he would guard her Dreaming, and Marcus could hardly begrudge her that comfort. Not when he had been instrumental in keeping Lennier on Minbar, far from her side. She did not have many friends left, he realized. Her people idolized her and despised her, but they did not tell her stories of their children, or complain to her about the goks in the garden. It must be a lonely life, he thought. To always be separate from your people. He only hoped that the temporary renewed closeness would not harm Lennier.

“Delenn is strong enough for it,” Neroon said.

Marcus looked up from their daughter to find his fiancé leaning on the door to her room. “Was I speaking out loud?” he asked.

“No,” Neroon assured him, “But your face telegraphed your thoughts. She is strong enough to weather what they throw at her.”

“How can anyone stand alone against the universe?” Marcus asked. “It is such a lonely calling.”

“Delenn of Mir was well-chosen for her role. She lacks an understanding of the darker realities of life, but she’s replaced it with a solid and somewhat innocent conviction in the basic goodness and fairness of the universe. She can stand on that, and rally people of many races around her. She never doubts the rightness of her actions, and people follow that conviction.”

“A saint is never worshipped at their own hearth,” Marcus quoted.

“I don’t understand,” Neroon admitted.

“It’s an old earth saying. The universe will remember the good she’s done, but here and now, her own people cast her aside because she is different.”

Neroon shrugged. “So she finds her own family, in Sheridan and the others on his station, in Lennier, in the Rangers. In you. Some must stand alone, Marcus. That is the way the universe works. Always, there must be the one who stands alone, who strikes the first match to light the way. After her will come others, a small band at first, to light their torches at the spark she has ignited. And from them it will spread. From us it will spread. But someone has to be the first to nourish that spark.”

Marcus grinned. “Secretly you wanted to be a poet, didn’t you?” He asked with a wink.

Neroon snorted. “Yes, I can see myself declaiming teela to a packed house. No, I am what I wish to be. But I will admit there was a time my heart leaned towards the Religious Caste, and I still believe they have a great deal to teach us, as we have something to teach them.”

“What’s the next ritual?” Marcus asked, changing the subject. He didn’t want to chase the impending conflicts on Minbar and earth around any farther for a while.

Neroon blinked, but adjusted easily. “Normally, a public dinner with both of our families. That is impossible, but I hope you will permit me to escort you to one of the nicer restaurants in town anyway.”

Marcus smiled and nodded, leaning over to rest his weight against Neroon’s solid bulk. “Did I ever tell you the story of the Princess and the Pea?” he asked, seeing Fara blink up at them sleepily. 

***

The town nearest to the estate of the Star Riders was an old one, and had resisted most attempts to modernize. Marcus, noticing a similar tendency in the estate, wondered if that was a northern peculiarity or if it had something to do with the weather. Certainly the more modern buildings were more pleasing to the eye, but upon reflection, they truly needed the power to stay on to run the heating systems. Should the power fail, they lost heat in a frighteningly short period of time, as anyone who had ever lived in the barracks of the Ranger training facility could attest. Here in the north, where winter lasted most of the year, and the temperature could easily drop low enough to kill even those bred for it if they were caught unprepared, the older, more weather-resistant buildings made of this stone were probably a wiser idea.

Especially given the ferocity of the blizzards; Marcus had seen only one of those legendary storms thus far, but Neroon assured him worse were coming. It would be all too easy for such a storm to interrupt power systems completely, even the sophisticated power systems of the Minbari. Marcus would not want to be stuck in a building that leaked heat, should that happen; the storms could last for days, once winter really set in.

“Which restaurant are we headed for?” Lennier asked. He was coming along as Marcus’ chaperone; Neroon was accompanied by his immediate family and Helacann. Marcus hadn’t asked about the scribe’s presence, but he had a few suspicions. 

“Tannir’s,” Ardiri answered, obviously excited. “I did my last bit of apprenticeship under him; he can put together ingredients native to this area better than anyone I’ve ever heard of. If you want real northern delicacies, there’s no better place to go. I’m amazed we could get a table; the reservation list is usually a few years long.”

Neroon said nothing, but Marcus saw his eyes crinkle up slightly. “It pays to be Satai?” he asked, very quietly.

Neroon shifted his grip on Fara slightly as he stepped over a particularly deep pile of snow, and chuckled, refusing to comment. 

“Daddy,” the girl asked loudly, distracting the others from wondering what they were whispering about, “Why doesn’t Marcus sink?”

“Sink?” Neroon asked, puzzled.

“In the snow!”

“Ah,” Neroon smiled. “Marcus is human, Fara. He weighs much less than I do. Also, he is wearing snowshoes.”

Fara nodded wisely. “You should wear snowshoes, daddy. You wouldn’t get wet so much then.”

Marcus valiantly attempted to suppress a smile, but had to turn his face away to keep the girl from seeing it. The expression on Neroon’s face was absolutely priceless.

“If I wore snowshoes,” the Warrior answered after a moment, “I would have to put you down in order to keep my balance. And then we’d never find you. The drifts are bigger than you are! We’d have to wait for spring, and you’d be a Fara-popsicle.”

Fara shook her head. “Daddy, you could put me in a back-carrier like the teachers.”

Marcus couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing at the dumbfounded expression Neroon now wore. “It appears we have much to learn about practicality from our daughter, Neroon,” he gasped, doubling over and coming perilously close to tangling his unwieldy snowshoes and falling flat on his face with mirth.

“It appears we do,” Neroon chuckled. “Perhaps I should begin employing the children of the Caste as tacticians aboard our warships. But then my Warriors would be forced to go to the sea, for the shame of being useless to their Caste. Alas, it is not to be. We shall have to leave things as they are, and Miss Fara can advise me in secret.”

“Yay!” she cried, throttling Neroon with her sudden hug. The glare the Minbari shot his laughing mate indicated clearly whom she had picked up that particular human habit from. Marcus shrugged, unrepentant. He was not able to touch Neroon in public; it was still too early in their courtship for such behaviour. But if he couldn’t, then their daughter bloody well could and would, and Neroon would know every time she did that Marcus touched him through her.

Neroon caught his eyes and smiled, even as he eased Fara’s arms from around his neck and tickled her lightly, dangling her above a particularly fine drift. Marcus chuckled, knowing that at the next opportunity, the little girl would seek revenge by shaking snow off the tree branches and onto Neroon’s unprotected head. That would certainly teach Neroon to go about without a head covering; it might be a mild winter day, and Minbari might not lose heat from their scalps the way humans did, but that didn’t make him invulnerable. Especially not once the snow melted and tricked down into the highly sensitive areas beneath the bonecrest. Marcus particularly looked forward to Neroon’s reaction.

Neroon’s smile changed from that of a co-conspirator to something far softer and deeper, before he looked away and engaged his sister in conversation about their favourite childhood memories of going to town. Marcus felt the smile like a caress, and shivered with something other than the cold. He snuggled a little deeper into the cloak he wore – and old one of Neroon’s, borrowed because of its warmth, instead of his own brown Ranger cloak, although he still wore his uniform beneath it – and felt as though his fiancé’s arms surrounded him despite the strictly appropriate distance between them.

Dinner turned out to be an adventure. Neither Marcus nor Lennier had any idea what most of the things on the menu were, and Neroon’s family took great delight in making them try old family favourites. Marcus, whose human taste buds did not always agree with Minbari spices, found it an adventure. Usually an enjoyable one. 

Their table received frequent odd looks, though, and eventually Marcus noticed enough of them to ask Nerlin about it, quietly, while Neroon was occupied with getting Fara to try some sort of vegetable stir-fry. 

“The looks?” Nerlin seemed puzzled by the question. “You’re human.”

Marcus shook his head. “There have been humans on Minbar for nearly a decade. Why do they still stare?”

Nerlin blinked, then put his eating utensil down to focus on the conversation. “Marcus, when you have been on Minbar, you have only spent time in Tuzan’oore and Yed’oore and in the estate of my Clan. The cities in the south are our most cosmopolitan areas. It is no wonder the Anla’Shok train there; where else could they have encountered such a variety of peoples? And the Star Riders patrol some of our most outlying border regions, areas where Minbari and outsiders live together much more easily than they do here. But here on our homeworld, outside of Tuzan’oore and certain districts of Yed’oore, have you ever seen a human? Have you ever even seen a Centauri? No, aliens do not travel to the outlying regions, not without either grave cause or personal invitation. And these happen rarely. Also, the Minbari are not like you humans. We do not travel merely for the sake of travelling. Most Minbari are born, live their lives, and die within the same region. Probably less than twenty percent of our population has ever travelled among the stars; of those twenty percent, between five and ten are Warrior Caste serving on our battle ships. The majority of the rest are Religious pilgrims and traders.”

“You’re telling me that the Warrior Caste has more contact with alien life than the other two Castes?” Marcus asked.

“I know. People tend to think the Religious Caste is the most tolerant, that they go about the universe seeking knowledge and understanding, and some of them do. They think the Workers travel and exchange techniques and knowledge, and some do. But every member of the Warrior Caste deals with aliens regularly. Often in conflicts and disputes, and despite our name we try very hard to ensure that all peaceful avenues are explored before we resort to war. The Religious Caste claims our official diplomats as theirs, but few Minbari outside of the Warrior Caste have the practical, everyday knowledge of alien races that we do.”

Marcus shook his head. “I never would have considered it that way, but it seems obvious now that it’s been pointed out. So if that’s true,”

“It is,” Nerlin interrupted him, bowing an apology. “And because it is true, it means that you are the first human – possibly the first non-Minbari – that the people in this room have ever seen. They are not hostile, but they are curious, and they do not know how to ask the questions they have. Who are you? Why are you here? Why are you hosted by the Star Riders? What tales can you tell of the world, the universe, outside of the Ilriam region? They are not an intolerant or xenophobic people, Marcus. But they have no idea how to talk to you, or any other alien, and this makes them seem so. And because we have lived this way since long before the time of Valen, it is so ingrained in us that even if half of Minbar was settled by aliens tomorrow, it would take hundreds if not thousands of years for them to stop being alien and become neighbours. Do you see? They would be welcomed, they would be valued, they would make friends, but there would always be that sense of separation.”

Marcus nodded. He did begin to see, and it put an entirely new perspective on the Minbari. “So in marrying your son,” Marcus began quietly, then paused, not knowing how to complete the question.

“In marrying my son,” Nerlin answered anyway, “You will face opposition from the governing powers of Minbar. They fear change, fear aliens coming in and changing a culture that has remained functionally intact for thousands of years. But from the people you meet on the street, you will receive mixed reactions. Some will dislike you, some will be indifferent, some will invite you in for tea, but most will bow politely, ask after your husband and Clan, and then go about their business. The Marka’ri Minsa speaks for our people, but in many ways, it has as little in common with them as the Narn have with the Centauri.”

Marcus chuckled, and bowed slightly to his future father. “Thank you. I believe I understand your people a little better, now. And I will make more of an effort to meet them, now that I know the stares are not hostile.”

“You should,” Nerlin agreed. “Most Minbari, especially those here, will not care that we once warred with your people. But they will care, and remember, that you take time to ask after their health or to help shovel a walk or raise a barn. It is the way of people everywhere, I think.”

Marcus, who remembered the stories his mother told of her youth in a rural part of earth, could only agree. 

***

Marcus and Lennier waited nervously the next morning to be admitted to Aalann’s office. She’d called for them both shortly after breakfast, and Marcus had a feeling he was about to find out what the twelfth ritual would entail. He wasn’t certain he was looking forward to it.

"Well," Aalann said, staring hard at both of them from behind her massive desk. "Here is a thing that has not happened in centuries. I have had not one but two Warriors of my Clan petition me to take spouses whose hearts are those of Warriors, but who hold no affiliation to our Caste."

Marcus blinked. "Two?" He looked sideways at Lennier. He’d thought there was something more going on last night.

Lennier flushed slightly. "I would have spoken to you after this meeting. Helacann has asked to court me; we spoke to my family when we were at the Temple. They have given their blessing, but my Clan is a monastic one.”

Marcus understood the deeper meaning behind that statement. Lennier’s Clan would not leave their monastery. The young priest had left them to do his duty, and they had welcomed him back; now he left them again for love, and they would not. They would send no representative to act as his chaperone; as far as they were concerned, by accepting Helacann’s proposal, he became a Star Rider, more Warrior than priest. If the couple visited the temple they would be welcomed, but Lennier’s family would not travel here to visit them.

Even on Minbar, there were pigheaded traditionalists. The which Marcus had already known.

“You have done me the favour of standing in for my Clan,” he said quietly to his friend. “I could do no less for you. If you will let me.”

Lennier’s eyes showed his gratitude, but he only nodded. “That would be acceptable.”

“Good!” Aalann exclaimed. “That makes this easier. This is not a ritual I would normally have assigned to one of the Tha’Domo, but his presence will make it possible to conceal yours, Anla’Shok.”

Marcus tried to think of something that would require that level of deception, and couldn’t. “What must we do?”

“You will face the Trial of Shadow,” Aalann decreed.

“But that is one of the Warrior Caste’s secrets, held as closely as the Religious Caste holds the Dreaming,” Lennier objected.

“And will you not become members of my Clan?” Aalann asked. “Have you not fought on our warships?”

“Lady Aalann,” Lennier said proudly. “I will marry Helacann, when our period of courtship is finished. But I am of the Religious Caste, and he is Worker Caste. All who go through the Trial of Shadow are Warriors, if not before they go in then when they come out. I will not become a Warrior, and neither will he; if I am neither a Warrior nor married to one, even though I marry into a Warrior Clan I can see no reason for this.”

Aalann shook her head. “Not all become Warriors. Ardminn of Mir walked through the Trial of Shadow, and came out unchanged in her heart. I am sure Lennier of the Chu’domo will do no less. I do not require you to understand my reasons, only to obey.”

Marcus really hated that attitude, even though he understood it better these days. “Do you send everyone who wants to marry into your Clan through this Trial?” he asked, somewhat harsher than he’d intended.

“Only the extraordinary ones,” Aalann countered. “Choose. Will you face the Trial? If you do, you must go together; the Warrior Caste will permit Lennier to enter, but not you, Marcus Cole; you must enter when he does, and come out as he does, so they do not know a human has walked where the greatest of us is humbled.”

“What will we face?” Lennier asked.

“That, no one can tell you. Just as none can know what they will see in the Dreaming. It is one of our greatest mysteries. What you see will be a reflection of the shadows hidden deeper in your heart than even you know. They may take physical form, or they may not. Death is possible; it does not come often, and those it takes are forgotten by the Caste.”

Marcus nodded. “I accept. I will run your gauntlet; I no longer fear my shadows.”

“You should,” Lennier advised, eyes haunted, but he too nodded. “We will face your Trial.”

***

Marcus had expected the doors to the Trial of Shadow, located in the mountains near the estate of the Moon Shields, to be impressive. He hadn’t expected them to be carved out of the face of the mountain itself, leading to a chamber that had been built by no mortal hand. Marcus had, more than once, been forced to wonder what ancient and terrible power had formed Minbar; so many of the Minbari's oldest traditions centered around powers that even they could neither understand nor explain. As the massive doors creaked open to reveal the grandiose natural cavern that swallowed all light brave enough to try and enter it, Marcus stood as still as he could. He didn’t even shiver, although full winter had set in and the temperature had dropped to nearly thirty-five degrees below freezing. He and Lennier were bundled warmly, hooded against being seen; those who accompanied them held back and watched from a safe distance, dark against the glittering piled snow. They would remain there until the doors opened again, whether it took minutes or days. Neroon and Helacann waited apart, standing together, differences in rank forgotten in their worry. Of the two only Neroon had any idea what their intended would face within. 

The doors reached their full width, and Marcus and Lennier strode forward, entering the chamber together. The great doors banged shut behind them with a horrible finality, and plunged the chamber into a darkness it could never recover from. They walked forward, holding to each other to keep from being separated. It seemed they walked for many hours, but Marcus knew well that time was not necessarily solid here. As they walked, a tiny pinprick of light ahead of them grew, until they stood before a pillar of light that shone down on a figure encased in the same crystal that formed many of the Minbari buildings.

She was a Warrior, they could tell that much by the weapons at her hip. Edged blades, rather than a denn’bok; she was certainly from a time predating Valen. The dark robe she wore clung to her body, a robe of a cut foreign to all Minbari garments Marcus knew. It was either from another world, or so ancient its like had completely disappeared. Her face was far more chiselled than he was used to on female Minbari, androgynous in a rough rather than beautiful way, and her bonecrest rose proudly from her skull, rougher than the bonecrests Marcus was used to. Perhaps they had smoothed, over a thousand years? Or was it more? How ancient was this woman, who remained perfectly preserved, encased in watery crystal beneath the mountain?

“She is a Moon Shield,” Lennier observed quietly, nodding at a rough silver pendant hanging against her black robe. 

“How long has she been here?” Marcus asked. Lennier was far better versed in the history of his own people than Marcus was.

“At a guess?” Lennier muttered. “Longer than we have records for. Since before the Minbari were even unified into Castes; since the days of the warring Clans that spread across our world. We have perhaps twenty or thirty artefacts from those days; broken pots, a few weapons. Etchings on the walls of caves. She is from no period in history I know anything of.”

Marcus was about to question Lennier further, when the woman’s eyes snapped open. They were black as night, and he nearly drew his denn’bok, seeing a hint of the Shadow Servants in her gaze. But whatever power held her here, it was not their darkness.

“Who has come?” She asked, her voice echoing through the cave, speaking a form of Adrihi’e Marcus barely recognized as being a Minbari language, and yet could understand as perfectly as if she spoke English. Only as the echoes faded did he realize she had never moved her lips.

“Lennier of the Third Fane of Chu’domo,” Lennier began, bowing slightly to her.

“What is irrelevant,” She interrupted harshly. “Who has come?”

Marcus cleared his throat. “My name is Marcus Cole. I am the ma’fela of Neroon of the Star Riders.”

“Affiliation is irrelevant,” she denied. “Who has come?”

Lennier looked a little bit strained. “How can we tell you, if our names are not enough?”

She appeared to smile, slightly, but it could have been a trick of the bright light that illuminated her. “You understand more quickly than most, Lennier of the Third Fane of Chu’domo. Who you are is unimportant; names, affiliations, none of these matter here. There is no way in words to tell another who you are. What do you want?”

This question, Marcus knew only too well. “I won't answer that question,” he declared harshly. “It’s never brought anyone I know anything but trouble.”

“Wise,” she acknowledged. “Want is dangerous. There is always a cost, and things that are lost in the getting, and you never know what they will be until they are taken from you.” It could have been Marcus’ imagination, but he thought the crystal encasing her was thinner than it had been a moment ago.

“Wisdom and understanding,” she continued. “What is understanding?”

“A three-edged sword,” Lennier offered, quoting the deceased Kosh. 

“But which side do you wield?” she asked. The crystal was now quite definitely thinner. “Warriors must fight in the service of the Clan and of the universe. So which of the three sides do you wield, young Lennier? The sword of your own perceptions? The sword of another’s? Or the sword of truth?”

Lennier bowed slightly. “I wield no sword, lady. I am of the Religious Caste.”

Her eyes shifted to him, then away. “Ah,” she said, noncommittally. “And you, Marcus Cole? That is not a name I have heard.”

Marcus bowed as well, as ridiculous an action as it seemed. “I was not born Minbari, but I've chosen to live among them as one of the Anla’Shok,” he admitted.

“Ah,” her eyes glittered at that. “Such a decision was made by another I tested, many years ago. I know you. I have seen what you want. I have seen what others want from you. Now, I will show you the truth.”

As she finished speaking, the crystal dissolved entirely from her form, and she floated above the floor, the light glowing off her. Her eyes drew them in, hypnotic, and suddenly they could see spots of light in them, as if they viewed distant stars. Abruptly, the cavern vanished altogether, and they floated as if in space, while images played past them, snippets of a life not lived.

Marcus saw himself pursuing a hopeless relationship with Susan. He saw the fruition of everything he feared, both for earth and for Minbar; civil war came, and civilians died by the thousands as those who believed in a better future fought their own people. He watched as plans were hatched; saw himself gone to Mars with Stephen and improbably accepted. Saw Garibaldi fall to darkness and attempt to take John Sheridan with him. Saw Delenn and Neroon as they schemed together.

Watched, horrified and wounded to the soul, as the man he loved as he had never loved another gave his life to end the war that was destroying his people. Watched as he went on without caring, crewing a White Star above the homeworld of his race. Saw that ship struck down, and saw himself rush to the safety of Babylon 5, only to die for a woman who would never love him, and whom he truly did not love, whatever delusions he might have held on the subject.

This would have been enough, but there was more, as he had suspected there might be. It was called the Trial of Shadows, and it was aptly named; he saw again the lightning-fast, terrifying attack on Arisia; saw himself, in an atmospheric suit, well outside the habitation domes trying to repair an old piece of machinery. Saw the bodies as they floated off, the explosion of released pressure hurling them into space. Felt the guilt; they were his people, his colony; he should have saved them!

Saw earlier than that; saw his attempts to self-destruct that had ended his term of service as an EFI officer soon after the war. Saw what he’d done then, not as he’d seen it at the time, but with the full weight of everything he had learned since. Saw the terrible, terrible cost his actions had demanded of innocent people, human and Minbari alike. 

Saw, though he wished he hadn’t, that those same actions had been part of the fallout that made Susan Ivanova the woman she was today. Knew then, in the deepest part of his soul, that whatever he had made himself into by serving the rangers, it would never, ever be penance enough for the crimes that stained him as surely as the blood of the thousands of innocents that rightly lay on his hands.

“Which sword did you wield?” the question echoed around him.

“My own!” he cried. “I did this!”

“Which sword did you wield?” she asked, implacable as the mountain she rested under.

“Mine!” Marcus yelled again, tears streaming down his face.

“Which sword did you wield?” she demanded, angry now.

“I don’t understand!” he answered, anguished. “These deaths are on my head! I did these things! I wasn’t smart enough, or knowledgeable enough, or brave enough! I couldn’t save them, even when I knew what to save them from! I thought the information I gathered would be used for good, but it damned innocents to the worst fates I can imagine!”

“Which sword did you wield?” she demanded, more sympathetic now. 

“I only ever wanted peace,” Marcus murmured brokenly, which was no answer at all.

And, apparently, the right answer. “You have seen,” she said, as the images faded. “And now you know. There are always three edges to understanding; you know your side. The quest for peace, for understanding, to protect the innocent at the cost of your own life. You have seen, now, their side, the side of the ones who have used you. You have seen the cost you did not know you paid, the bridges you never knew you crossed even as you hung suspended a thousand feet above the earth. Now choose, Marcus Cole, who would belong to the Star Riders Clan. Choose, Minbari not born of Minbari; which will you wield?”

“Neither,” Marcus whispered. 

“You will put aside your weapon, and live as a hermit among the stars?” she asked. “You stand in a place that forms Warriors; are you not called to their purpose?”

“How can I know?” Marcus asked.

“Because you ask this question, you will know,” she answered. “Serve the universe, Marcus Cole. I think, now, you have dispelled enough of your shadows to hear it speak.”

The universe dropped away under him, and he found himself again in the chamber under the mountain, the Minbari woman still free of the crystal but unmoving as a statue. Lennier was curled on the floor nearby, head buried in his arms.

“Lennier!” Marcus gasped, throwing himself to the ground beside his friend to check for injuries.

“I am fine,” the priest’s voice sounded weak.

“What happened?” Marcus asked. “What did you see?” 

“Possibilities,” Lennier answered, and would say no more.

Marcus turned to the woman. “What was that?” he asked. “I thought we would face battle here!”

“Did you not?” she asked, he lips moving this time. “Did you not see that which you carry with you, buried deep in your soul? Guilt, doubt, rage?” her eyes flicked from him to Lennier. “Love? Did you not fight these things, and fight through them?”

Marcus knew, then, what his friend would never speak of. Marcus had seen the future, if he had not accepted Neroon’s friendship; Lennier would never have met Helacann. Never have been free of his growing attachment to Delenn. Marcus wondered how many deaths the young priest had caused, when the greatest tragedy of the Minbari had caught up with him.

Lennier slowly got to his feet. “You have shown us things about ourselves we would rather deny," he agreed, "but why is this a test of our abilities as Warriors?” he asked.

“It is not,” she answered immediately. “The abilities of those who enter this Hall are never in question. This is a test of your heart. A Warrior does not act for himself alone, nor does a Warrior act in the service of another unless that other is worthy. I see what happens in my world; I hear the whispers as they pass through my mountain. I see that thousands of years have passed since I walked among my people, and still they have not learned this lesson. Warriors fight in the service not of the universe but of their own power. No more; once I tested only fears and shadows carried within. But now, with you, I begin to show the shadows created without. 

“I see ripples in the sea of time. Each of my Warriors is an oar dipped into that sea, guiding others safely through dangerous waters.”

“A pretty image,” Marcus said. “But would so much really have been different, if Neroon and I never became friends? How can one friendship change the universe so much?”

She smiled, and stepped back, freezing in place as crystal flowed up from the floor to cover her again. “Ask the one you call Sinclair. Ask the ones you call Starkiller and Entil’zha. Ask Londo Mollari and G’kar of Narn. They now walk strange roads in a yellow wood, Marcus Cole. Just as you do.”

Marcus’ eyes widened. “Kosh? Was that the road more traveled?” he asked, remembering the last words he’d heard from Kosh.

“Good luck, Marcus Cole and Lennier of the Star Riders,” she said, instead of answering, as the crystal flowed towards her neck. “I will see you again, in a place where no shadows fall.” The crystal covered her completely, and a path was illuminated along the floor, leading away from her. 

Sharing an incredulous look, both still deeply thoughtful about the visions they’d been granted, the two friends followed it.

"You think she had something to do with Kosh?" Lennier asked, after a moment.

Marcus shook his head. "I don't know what to think. She showed me things... terrible things, Lennier. The outcome was good, but so much preceded it. And I could not see the difference it made, in the end."

Lennier shrugged slightly. "There was no difference," he said. "Not if she showed you the same future that I saw. Everything we would have built, everything we fought and died for... no one would remember it, or if they did, they would twist it to their own ends. Because we would have changed the universe, but not the people in it. I am not sure, now, that we can change the people."

Marcus frowned, then changed the subject. "Do you love Helacann?" he asked.

Lennier shot him a sideways glance. "There is a way for Minbari to force themselves to imprint on another, with the aid of specific drugs and meditation techniques. This is only possible if there is an attraction present in the first place, and thus can rarely be used in such a case as mine. If I had remained on Minbar we would have met at some philosophical lecture, perhaps, and married quite happily. But now... now, he and I both know that I have had to force something that would have come naturally, because of Delenn. But we will not speak of it. I will see her as little as possible, to avoid tragedy, because no matter what I feel for him a part of my soul will always belong to her. And I have no wish to hurt either of them."

"I'm sorry," Marcus said, unsure what else to offer.

"I am not," Lennier said. "I know what end I would have come to, if I had remained there even another month. I am glad I had not yet fallen far enough to be beyond rescuing, and I am glad I will marry Helacann."

They reached the doors, and Marcus paused before trying to open them. "Why do I get the feeling that everything's changed again?" he asked.

"Perhaps it has," Lennier offered unhelpfully, and pushed on the door. In defiance to the laws of physics and logic, the mountain-sized structures swung outwards easily, as easily as they had opened inwards to admit them however long ago it had been.

Snow was falling lightly as they stepped out, the sun shining above the clouds to create a silver-grey glow to the air. It didn't look to be much later than when they'd gone in, but for all they knew, a month could have passed. It had certainly seemed as though they lived the full length of years the strange Minbari had shown them. 

He smiled tightly at Neroon when the Warrior stepped up to greet him, Helacann and Lennier moving a few steps off to hold their own conversation.

"Are you all right?" Neroon asked, his eyes roving over Marcus, taking in the shadowed but somehow lighter expression in his eyes with both concern and relief.

"Fine," Marcus assured. "Who was that woman, though? Lennier didn't know."

"You saw someone?" Neroon asked, startled.

"You mean you didn't?" Marcus asked. "I thought she was part of the test."

"There have always been stories," Neroon clarified, "that an ancient Warrior waits to measure your skills, a Warrior who lived in our most brutal age and was never defeated. It is said that she created the Trial and the test. But not more than one Warrior in a thousand has ever seen her. This is a great mark of favour."

Marcus snorted. "Of course it is. It always is. Well, I think more may encounter her now. She seemed displeased with the recent behaviour of the Warrior Caste. But I'm not sure she was Minbari."

"What else would she be?" Neroon asked.

"She reminded me a little of the first Ambassador Kosh," Marcus admitted. "In the way she spoke, and the way she understood the universe."

Neroon frowned, then shrugged. "If so, it will remain yet another mystery of Minbar. We have so many already, one more will not be noticed. But you - what did you face within?"

"What did you?" Marcus countered. 

"I was much younger when I entered the Hall, Marcus. I faced myself, as a priest. I faced the part of me that believed I would never be a true Warrior, because I held that bit of the Religious Caste in my heart. But I faced nothing deeper than that."

"So we've got unseen spirits of the past, and a dark spectre showing possibilities of the future," Marcus mused. "If you see a jolly fat man inviting us to come in and know him better, run."

Neroon blinked in confusion.

"Never mind," Marcus waved it aside. "Human reference. I'll force you to read Dickens one of these days. She showed me what my life might have been, if you had not stayed after the den'shah. And she showed me some of my own past, the things I've always blamed myself for."

"Do you still?" Neroon asked. He'd long thought that Marcus blamed himself for too many things that had been outside of his control, but he had never known how to broach the subject.

Marcus shrugged. "The guilt isn't so easy to let go of. I'll probably always carry some of it. But seeing it from the outside, I can sort of understand how little I could have done to change things. Doesn't stop me wishing I could've."

"You'll never stop wishing that," Neroon agreed sadly. "I still wish I could have stopped the destruction of the Dralafi, and I was nowhere near that sector. But as long as it is only wishing, and no longer blame, I am pleased."

Marcus chuckled. "I thought you might be."

"This future you saw," Neroon changed the subject, "Was it a good one?"

"It depends on how you mean good," Marcus said, his eyes haunted. "We won, in the end. I think. The civil wars ended. But the universe went on as it always has. You died a hero, and I never mourned you. Never knew what I'd lost. And then I died, for someone I thought I loved. I think I prefer this present to that future, even if it changes the outcome of the battles our people will fight."

Neroon's eyes darkened at the mention of their deaths, and he reached out a gloved hand to caress Marcus' cheek. "I would not trade our present for anything, ma’fela."

Marcus smiled, and burrowed close to his warmth in a brief hug. "Neither would I."

***


	4. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Musical credits for this section: Neroon’s songs, of course, do not actually exist. But they were inspired in part by extant works. “Song of a Mountain Winter” is based on Sarah McLachlan’s interpretation of Gordon Lightfoot’s “Song for a Winter’s Night”. Neroon’s second selection is based on the CD my karate sensei used to play during katas; I can’t for the life of me remember what the title was. His third selection, the dirge, is inspired by Thomas Tallis’ “Spem In Alium”, originally scored for eight choirs in a massive cathedral – I’ve decided to only keep the wailing soprano line and have the rest of it played on completely imaginary Minbari instruments, but in my head it sounds awesome. His last selection I admit to making up entirely. ^^
> 
> Marcus’ music, by contrast, all actually exists. His first piece is the Tallis Fantasia, also known as Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis, composed by Ralph Vaughan-Williams in 1910 and originally scored for expanded string orchestra. The entire piece is some 17 minutes long, when performed in its entirety, and is (IMHO) one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written, although not as well known as some others. His second selection is “Particle Man” by They Might Be Giants (Marcus comes by his eclectic musical taste by way of the author, okay…). His third selection is “Yundah” (sometimes called “Sealwoman”) by Mary McLaughlin. His last selection is of course “We Are Invincible” by Pat Benatar.

After the stress of the Trial of Shadow, Marcus was relieved when Neroon entered his rooms a few days later with a mug of hot spiced not-quite-cider, made from the not-quite-apples that grew abundantly near the estate.

"Can I assume that cider indicates a fairly peaceful ritual?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

Neroon smiled, both amused by his mate and pleased that the clear green eyes had remained free of the guilt that had so long plagued the Ranger. He didn't believe they were fully in the clear; bad days would come. But he hoped they would be few and far between.

"You may," he answered. "Lennier and Helacann have gone off to complete some of the Worker and Religious rituals, so we are left without your chaperone. I should wait until he returns, but I find myself impatient."

Marcus chuckled throatily. "You expect me to complain that you want our courtship to go faster? Not bloody likely!"

Neroon smiled. "I thought that might be your response. Today we would not absolutely require a chaperone in any case. We are expected to spend the day sharing our favourite music. Usually between three and five pieces, they must have meaning to us, and we must explain why we've chosen them."

Marcus blinked, startled, then nodded. It didn't seem like a very Warrior thing to do, but when one considered that nearly all Minbari music - outside of the chimes used for ceremonies - was based on the teela, it made perfect sense. The words were intended to evoke emotions and memories, and the music itself could range from quiet windchimes to pounding drums. The Minbari used far more percussion instruments than the humans had ever even invented, as well as more woodwinds – although these tended to be made of crystal, rather than wood - but only one that could be considered part of the brass family, an ancient hunting horn that took a great deal of skill to get more than four or five notes out of. They'd never really developed stringed instruments apart from the almost-lute that the Religious Caste used for special occasions, either; Marcus guessed it might have something to do with the absence of catgut. The practical result was a musical tradition that bore very little resemblance to any of the pirmarily string-influenced musical traditions of earth, although he'd heard some of the classical African drummers had salivated over the Minbari's instruments.

"You haven't given me much warning," he muttered. "Human music is quite different; different styles evoke different periods in our history, different situations in our lives."

Neroon gave him a curious look as he passed him one of the cups of cider. "It does not sound very different at all."

Marcus blinked again, then laughed at himself. "Perhaps it isn't at that. Very well, since you were forewarned, you may go first, while I think of something."

Neroon bowed graciously, and took a crystal out of one of the pockets on his belt, inserting it into the small data unit on the table in front of them before settling back into the cushions of the sofa. Marcus leaned in to rest on him, not even really noticing anymore that the sofa actually stood on the floor, instead of on legs and springs as a human one would.

Marcus was surprised at what came out of the speakers. He'd been expecting one of the more martial teela, wild with percussion and fire. This was almost meditative, ringing tones on instruments Marcus had no names for accompanied by the muffled beat of large drums, the singer's voice low and smooth. It blended together rather brilliantly, actually.

"This is the music of my childhood," Neroon explained softly after they had listened for some minutes. "It was written many centuries ago, by a hermit of the Religious Caste who made her home in a cave in the mountains not far from here." Some sort of deep wind instrument joined in, speeding the tempo and occasionally rising to shriek through the other instruments. Small bells fell into the pattern like snowflakes, and Marcus suddenly understood.

"It's a song of winter, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes," Neroon smiled. "It is called "Sound of Mountain Winter", actually. I loved sitting by the fire in the great hall, looking out of the windows at the falling snow while my mother and grandmother taught us the traditions of our Clan. This song was often played,  
because the Star Riders have always lived in this region, and the long winters here mean something very profound to us. Many of our Clan traditions revolve around them, as do many of our celebrations."

Marcus smiled, and nodded, leaning back to enjoy the rest of the song. "It's beautiful."

The next song was much more in line with what he'd expected from Neroon. Repetitive complicated percussion patterns filled the room, and Marcus smiled, his muscles twitching in remembered response.

"This one I know," he grinned. "The ranger trainees would do morning katas to this every day."

Neroon chuckled. "They must have inherited it from Sech Durhan, then, because he put the Warrior trainees through the same thing when I first studied under him."

They shared memories of their early days studying under the famous Sech as the song continued; it was a very long piece, suited to use in a Warrior's warm-up routine, which could last for hours some days. It gradually wound to a close, and was replaced by ringing bells larger and deeper than most Marcus had heard on Minbar, slow beats played on crystal resonators, and a trailing vocal line that didn't seem to actually have words associated with it.

"What is this?" Marcus asked. "I've never heard anything like it."

"You wouldn't have," Neroon told him quietly. "It's a Warrior dirge; they played it for my sister when the Dralafi was lost."

Marcus, who had lost his own share of family, only nodded in recognition of the gift Neroon was giving him and sat quietly to listen to the piece. It was different from earth funerary pieces, but he rather liked it. He wondered what would happen if he fell in battle now; would he be buried as a Minbari, or as a human? Questions he'd never thought to ask, but they might turn out to be very important. It was one thing to declare his intent to live among the Minbari, but how far in would they allow him? Even Neroon; how far would Neroon go in accepting a foreign mate into the closest of Clan customs?

"What are you thinking?" Neroon asked after a few moments.

Marcus shook his head. "That despite everything, I'm never going to truly be a Minbari," he answered. "All the willingness to learn in the world can't replace being born and raised in your culture."

Neroon shrugged. "You are no more foreign to me than my mother was to my father when they married. And I could not love you as I do if we were the same. It is in our differences that our life together flourishes, as much as it is in our similarities, love." He placed a light kiss on Marcus' lips.

Marcus smiled. "That's the first time you've said that."

"What?" Neroon asked. "That I appreciate our differences?"

Marcus shook his head. "No. You called me your love."

Neroon frowned. "I've said as much before," he disagreed.

"In Minbari. Never before in English. I didn't think it would make a difference, to hear it in my own language."

"But it does?" Neroon asked.

Marcus paused, then nodded. "I don't know why. I hardly speak it myself these days."

Neroon smiled, and kissed him again. "It is the language of your childhood, the language of your ancestors. It does me no harm to use it occasionally, as you honour me by speaking mine. Love."

Marcus smiled, and listened closely as the funeral dirge faded into something much softer and more hopeful.

"What's this one?" he asked, after listening for a few minutes.

"The song I was listening to when I first realized that far from being a curious alien, you were as dear to me as hearth and home," Neroon answered seriously. "I was on Babylon 5, attending an amateur teela recital among the Minbari on the station. This song was written by a Warrior woman left behind to care for her children while her husband went off on patrol. It talks about how she felt left behind, and how she both wanted her husband home and was proud that he did his duty to their Clan. I was in a similar frame of mind at the time, left without the duty I had always defined myself by, and it spoke to something in me it never had before. This is the true essence of teela; it illuminates those parts of our own souls we have never shed light on, and brings forth emotions and memories that are not necessarily our own, but which we incorporate into ourselves. It is the most tangible representation of what you like to call our group consciousness, I think."

Marcus grinned. "I like it." They listened quietly to the remainder of the song, then Neroon reached over and removed the data crystal.

"And now it is your turn," he said, slipping the crystal back into a pocket on his belt.

Marcus nodded, and unwound himself from the couch, going into his bedroom and sifting through the small pile of personal effects he'd collected in a wooden box on his table. The box itself was a gift from Neroon's mother, from his first visit to the estate.

"I'll do the best I can on short notice," Marcus said as he came back into the main room. "There are probably more suitable songs in my collection, but these are the first that came to mind."

He set the crystal in the reader Neroon had used, using the small tabletop display to select the songs he'd chosen out of the long and eclectic list of music he'd collected over the years. He leaned back into his former position, resting comfortably against Neroon's bulk,  
as the first selection began playing.

Neroon listened quietly for several moments. "I am unfamiliar with the instruments," he admitted. "But it is a moving piece."

Marcus nodded. "The instruments are all strings; I'll show you some pictures later. Minbari never developed them much. This was my mother's favourite. She always said it reminded her of standing atop the cliffs near her home, watching the sun set far out over the ocean. It was played at the funerals of all of my family. It's called the Tallis Fantasia; it's based on a much earlier religious song. It came out of a time immediately before the first global war on earth. Our world changed after that; nothing – music, art, literature – was ever quite the same as what had come before humans knew we could commit such acts upon our fellow man. We lost some immeasurable quality of innocence when that happened. Not that what came after wasn't wonderful as well; just… different."

Neroon nodded his understanding and listened quietly. He wished he'd known Marcus' mother; the more he learned of her, the more he thought she would have had to teach him. She had certainly had a profound effect on the man he loved.

The next song was different from the first note, and Neroon's eyes widened at the sounds coming out of the speakers. He listened incredulously for a moment, then turned to Marcus.

Marcus was laughing even before Neroon could formulate a question. "I know, I know!" he crowed. "It's complete nonsense. I know! My father was trying to explain particle physics when I was a teenager, and nothing he said seemed to be clicking with me, so he finally gave me this recording."

Neroon shook his head. "Particle man?" he asked, unwilling to accept the explanation at face value.

Marcus nodded, forcing his amusement under control. "It worked! But it also gave me a certain respect for the utterly ridiculous."

Neroon shook his head. "This explains much, ma'fela."

Marcus' laughter died down to chuckles, but he nodded. "I suppose it does at that. I'll have to make you listen to the rest of the album someday."

Neroon could only shake his head, and conceal his own smile, as the music changed again. This time it was more akin to Minbari music, shifting tones played on an old synthesizer that wasn't all that different from the crystalline tones of some Minbari instruments, accompanied by polyphonic chanting. Neroon listened appreciatively.

"I do not understand the meaning," he admitted, "But it is beautiful."

Marcus smiled. "I often use this song for meditation. It's source is a legend of my mother's people, of a mythical creature called a Selkie. They were said to be seals – ocean mammals – that could shed their sealskins at night when the moon was full and walk the land as beautiful women. If you found their hidden sealskin before morning you could trap the maiden on land and force her to marry you. Surprisingly, most of the stories don't feature an abuse of that power. They're usually about kind and very lonely fishermen falling in love with one of the maidens, and she with him. Sometimes he hides her skin, and sometimes she gives it to him freely. But there is always that longing in her for the seas she was born in."

"A sad tale," Neroon remarked. "Joyous that they love each other, of course. But sad, that she should be torn from all she knows."

"As I have been?" Marcus asked with a smile. "I think I understand how they felt, Neroon, and there is little sadness in it. Sometimes, I look up and see strange stars, or walk through town and see the buildings built of crystal, and I feel torn between the life – and the love – I have chosen, and the one I left behind. But only for a moment, and only, as the song says, when the moon is full."

"Minbar has no moon," Neroon pointed out.

"Consider it a metaphorical moon, Neroon," Marcus laughed, as the music changed again, this time to a more pounding beat. "Ah. This song, replayed continually, was what my father used when he was initially running Will and I through martial arts training. It has a  
very solid beat."

"We will be invincible?" Neroon chuckled. "I am sure the lyrics had nothing to do with his choice."

Marcus smirked in return. "Not at all, I'm sure."

They spent much of the rest of the day trading songs back and forth, learning a little more about each other in the process, but none of their other selections had quite the import of their first choices. 

***

"We have a slight problem," Neroon began, stripping his gloves and gauntlets off as he came in from the outdoor training yard. Marcus took his cloak from him and hung it on one of the many pegs by the door before handing him a cup of the omnipresent steaming not-quite- apple cider. He was beginning to suspect the Clan of having some kind of superstition about letting the cider pot run dry during the winter.

"Oh?" Marcus asked, hoping it was nothing serious.

"Yes," Neroon acknowledged. "The fourteenth ritual is a chaperoned public excursion."

Marcus blinked, then shook his head. "Sorry, not following."

"We must be seen together in public, at a concert or recital or festival of some kind. But any of the options - excepting maybe the festival - would make it quite obvious that we are courting. We have managed to keep that information secret from everyone but my family and our friends; I do not think we are yet in a position to make it more public. And the next festival in town, the Quarter Winter Festival, is not for another two valsta."

Marcus chuckled, but nodded his agreement, mind working quickly. "Is there any rule that says the one doing the courting must be the one to escort the other to an event?"

Neroon paused in his grumbled tirade, and gave Marcus a sharp look. "Not as such. Usually, it isn't a problem, but I know of many cases where an interesting festival of the courted partner's Clan was attended. Do you have an idea?"

Marcus grinned. "The human ranger students and the earth embassy get together every year and throw a series of celebrations coinciding with major religious festivals on earth. Partially as an exchange of culture, partially as a way to make sure the humans who live here feel like they haven't left their whole life behind. On earth in three days is a celebration called Christmas. You remember the religious ceremony I took you to on the station?" he asked, referring to the time they'd spent together while Marcus was healing from the den'shah, during which he'd taken the Minbari Warrior with him to an Easter service at the station chapel.

"I do," Neroon acknowledged. "I learned much about your people that day."

Marcus nodded. "Well, Christmas is kind of the direct opposite. It's a celebration of the birth of Jesus. At least, it was originally. But over time, it became a planet-wide celebration of peace, hope, joy, and goodwill. There is even a story about our first World War that claims that on Christmas night both sides put down their weapons and sang songs of peace together across the battlefield. The rangers and the embassy cut out most of the actual religious parts, to emphasize that; a celebration of peace that includes everyone, regardless of their faith or where they're from. They leave Christmas Day alone, so that those of us who did grow up celebrating it as a religious holiday can do so, but there'll be a huge feast and party on Christmas Eve."

"The Anla'Shok will not object to the presence of a Warrior?" Neroon asked.

Marcus snorted. "Not likely. Besides, Lennier's taking Helacann. We can pretend we're their chaperones again, if we need to. But I'd like to share this with you."

"Then we shall attend," Neroon agreed. "Although I hope, one day, you will take me to earth and show me how these holy days of yours are meant to be celebrated, among your own people."

Marcus stared at him for a long moment, surprised and touched, although he really should know by now that Neroon was much different from the harsh, uncompromising, xenophobic alien commander that he sometimes gave the impression of being. And that Neroon's mother had instilled in him a strong streak of the Religious Caste; in another life, Marcus would not have been surprised to find his fiancé among the Soul-Seeker sect, learning as much as he could about the universe around him.

"What?" Neroon asked, when the silence had stretched slightly past comfortable.

Marcus shook his head, and burrowed against him in a sudden hug. The smooth fabric and polished metal of Neroon's uniform smelled like the fresh snowfall outside, sweet and cold, but Neroon himself smelled like something indefinable that Marcus could only call 'home'.

"Are you all right?" Neroon asked him, arms coming up to surround him gently. They were the same height, but at moments like these, wrapped in Neroon's powerful arms, Marcus very much felt the difference in their builds, and revelled in it.

"Fine," Marcus acknowledged, squeezing his fiancé before stepping back slightly. "It's just that every so often, you say something that makes me love you even more than I already did. No one has ever wanted to be part of my family's traditions and history before. Not even my brother; he was always trying to get away from them, to stand on his own."

"His was an honourable path. But so is yours," Neroon said, letting Marcus go unwillingly. "The past gives us roots. Most Minbari would think as you do. I think your brother would never have been as comfortable here as you are, even though he came to us long before you did."

Marcus chuckled at that. "He got along with Delenn quite well, actually, although he never quite got used to Sinclair. Will was a man of action more than he was anything else; he mastered the fighting disciplines easily, but the spiritual never seemed very important to him."

"Come. Let us go tell Lennier and Helacann that we will accompany them to this feast, and then you may instruct all of us on what will occur."

Marcus chuckled a little bit evilly at that. "Three Minbari at my mercy. How ever will I manage?"

***(Missing Scene: [And On Earth, Peace](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1717937))

The party was held in the largest hall in the Ranger facility, tables set up that could hold anywhere from two to twenty people. Rather than attempt to find servers who could manage the odd human dishes and customs, those in charge had elected to use a buffet for the food; a row of tables along one side waited for the annual procession in which the Rangers carried in traditional dishes from their home regions to begin the feast. There would be something for everyone, no matter what their background, that would remind them of home-cooked meals eaten with family. Marcus couldn't even begin to imagine how some of it was transported here every year, but he intended to enjoy it to the fullest.

"Marcus!" one of the Ranger trainees doing duty as a greeter exclaimed as he entered the room, the three Minbari trailing him like ducklings.

"Chad," Marcus smiled, remembering tutoring the young man in language and pike forms when he first arrived, fresh from a small town in the north of Canada. Marcus had no idea why he'd left, or how he'd ended up here, but his kindness and enthusiasm were certainly a bright spot in a facility too often full of those who entered its gates already soul-sick with the horrors of war, as Marcus himself had done.

"You ought to try the turkey," Chad enthused. "It's almost as good as my gramma's. Or do you not do turkey?"

Marcus chuckled. "My family did goose, whenever we could get one, but I'll have a spot of turkey on your recommendation. How are things here?"

"We're good," Chad assured him with a smile. "But now that you're on-planet again I think Sech Durhan is out for your blood. Or at least your assistance with the beginning pike classes. He's been hovering around the punch bowl making sure none of the human trainees get a little stupid with the holiday and cause an incident."

Marcus smiled. "I'll talk to him. I could probably spare you some time, my duties to the Warrior Caste permitting."

"Oh, and cook wanted me to catch any passing Ranger of British descent," Chad added, grinning even more than usual. "Something about pudding?"

Marcus kept his laughter to himself with difficulty. This, he was going to enjoy. "I'll speak to him. None of the others in tonight?"

"I caught Reed hovering near the decorations earlier, but he hates being center of attention. Other than that, there's Morrisey, but you know how he feels about being called British."

"That's because he isn't," Marcus countered with a smile. "But I've given up explaining Island politics to you colonials."

"Probably safest. I doubt I could explain ours to you, either," the young trainee laughed. "I still haven't convinced some of the Mars-born trainees that 'Newfie' is a word. Will you introduce me, or just go right in?"

"I don't know if you deserve an introduction," Marcus mused, but he waved his companions up from where they'd been lingering politely during their conversation. "This is Alyt Neroon of the Star Riders Clan. Lennier you already know, and this other young man is his fiancé Helacann, also of the Star Riders Clan."

Chad bowed to them deeply. "I am honoured to make your acquaintance. Please, enjoy our hospitality, and learn something of our people on this night of fellowship," he said, slowly and carefully in the Minbari language. Then he ruined the solemnity by grinning and giving Lennier an enthusiastic thumbs-up in congratulation.

"We are honoured to share your celebration," they answered him, bowing back, Lennier blushing slightly. 

Others began entering the hall behind them, and they moved further into the room, the Minbari's eyes widening at the display of earth foods and decorations; even without the main items of the feast, there was quite a selection. The candle wreaths in particular caught their eyes, and Marcus foresaw many evenings spent before the fire in the great hall teaching Minbari how to weave pine - or whatever was closest - into the appropriate configurations. He thought he'd rather enjoy it.

"Neroon!" Durhan bellowed as soon as they approached the punchbowl. Marcus could see that, despite Durhan's claim to worry, the young human trainees looked in no way inclined to ruin the evening by spiking the drinks. 

"Sech," Neroon acknowledged with a smile, bowing to his old training master.

"Never expected to see you at one of these. Marcus is rubbing off on you." Durhan glared at a passing student, who smiled cheerfully in response.

"He is indeed," Neroon agreed.

"Well, good." Durhan nodded, pleased, and then looked past Neroon to Marcus. Lennier and Helacann had already deserted them, to speak to acquaintances of their own. "Mr. Cole, I believe Cook was in search of someone from your ancestral region of earth to complete the procession?"

Marcus bowed, eyes twinkling. "I am at his service. I'll collect Reed and see if I can convince him to participate." he left Neroon and their teacher to their conversation, swinging by the decorations and collecting the only other Ranger trainee whose family hailed from England, Malcolm Reed, known for his uncommon ability with explosives and his reticence in nearly equal measure. Reed joined him willingly when he promised to take the front position and they retreated into the kitchen where a multi-national (and planetary) group had formed, each standing by some dish or other from their homeland, often putting a last touch to it.

"Cook?" Marcus called, in English, making his way deeper into the bowels of the kitchen. The same word in Minbari would have brought Cook's Minbari counterpart out; they were, apart from species, virtually indistinguishable from each other and every other beefy military cook Marcus had ever known. They were both permanent fixtures of the facility, having been there longer than most of the Rangers currently serving.

"They find me someone British at last?" Cook's heavy Jamaican accent rolled out of an oven as he pulled his head out and around, a huge pan of something in his hands.

"They did," Marcus acknowledge with a smile. "Two of us, even, if you've a pudding to spare."

"Marcus Cole," Cook smiled, squeezing him in a floury bearhug after putting the tray down. Marcus felt bones creaking. "Wondered when I be seeing you again."

"It's good to be back," Marcus winced. "Same layout as usual, for the procession?"

"Yup," Cook looked at him shrewdly as he pulled a covered plate down from a high shelf and began removing the wrapper that'd kept it fresh for several months. "You look happier. More meat on your bones."

"I never could hide anything from you," Marcus smiled. "I am happy, and Neroon's sister keeps feeding me."

"Good. You have a match?" Cook changed the subject abruptly.

"Yes," Marcus grinned. "I even have a spare for Mr. Reed. And Morrisey said he’d carry the goose."

Cook nodded wisely. "Chad volunteered to help, because Canada's sort of British. I told him to take the fruitcake. No one else wants it."

Marcus shuddered. "We're not going to have to listen to any of his ridiculous fruitcake anecdotes again, are we?"

Cook shook his head, his expression clearly indicating that there was no accounting for taste. "I think the Minbari like them. Here. You take the pudding, and you lead the way out."

Marcus grinned, and seized the platter, walking back up to the front of the room where Reed and Morrisey waited for him so they could start the processional and get down to the serious business of eating. Marcus nodded to the Minbari trainee who had replaced Chad at the doors to the hall, and the doors were thrown open vigorously as the artificial lights were cut, leaving the room bathed in a warm glow of candle and firelight.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, and Otherwise," the earth ambassador began, "Please take your seats for the procession of the feast."

Marcus waited until the shifting had died down, then stepped into the open doorway at the head of the procession. "Wassail, Wassail, all over the town," he began, in a passably decent singing voice. The Rangers behind him took up the tune at least, even if they didn't know the words; for those that did, the chorus was roared out with particular vigour. The carol changed every year, depending on who headed the procession. Marcus held the record for most obscure choices, which he as quite proud of. The Minbari seemed somewhat bemused, but Marcus could see other humans leaning in to explain the archaic terminology and smiles on more than one face as the last dish entered the room and was placed on the table.

Marcus waited a moment for the last notes of the song to die out, then raised his voice again. "On this night of all nights, may there be peace on all our earths and goodwill to all men, whoever, whatever, and wherever they may be. For this we pray, in the name of whichever god we call on. Amen."

The amen was echoed sporadically around the room, and Marcus smiled, coming to his favourite part of the procession. He nodded to Reed, and they both struck matches; it was decidedly untraditional to eat the pudding at the beginning of the feast, but allowances had to be made for the logistics of such a large and varied gathering, and it had ended up being far easier to light it as part of the procession.

At Marcus' nod, both he and Reed released their matches, and the brandy-soaked and aged Christmas pudding whooshed alight, blue alcohol flames dancing high atop the center of the table. Marcus heard several gasps from those who hadn't been expecting the lightshow, as well as at least one pike snicking open. He sent a sardonic glance in his fiancé’s direction; he'd have to tease Neroon about that reaction later. For now, though, he and the rest of the human Rangers bowed to the assembled company and stepped back, joining the queue now forming to get plates and dig in. Dishes like the pudding that were unsafe for Minbari had been clearly marked; Marcus anticipated a most pleasant evening.

And so it was.

***

"What's next?" Marcus asked Neroon when he arrived back at the Star Riders estate a few days later. He had, at the request of the Ranger instructors, remained to add his particular blend of skills to the education of the youngsters. After a brief subspace conversation with Delenn they'd set up a schedule for him to return there for a couple of days every two or three weeks, further legitimizing his stay on Minbar in the eyes of those who couldn't yet know he was anything but a liaison between the Rangers and the Warrior Caste.

"An exchange of literature," Neroon informed him, as they walked back to Marcus' rooms together. "I managed to find an original account of the Star Rider I told you about once, the one who believed in the calling of the heart over duty to Caste and Clan. I thought you might find his observations interesting."

Marcus smiled at that. "I would, thank you. I have several historical volumes in my collection; what are the rules for this exchange?"

"There really aren't any," Neroon admitted. "Only that it be something that means a great deal to you. But usually the literature exchanged has to do with the history of your Clan. It is a way to learn more of each other's history and traditions."

Marcus nodded. "Well, I think I'll give you the first in a series of historical novels by Patrick O'Brian, then. They're considered among the best ever written, and they feature men of the country of my ancestors during a time of war. I think you'll enjoy them, although I'm sure I'll have to explain some of the concepts to you."

"And I to you," Neroon acknowledged. He laid the book he was carrying on Marcus' table as they entered the sitting room, and waited politely while Marcus fetched the data crystal that held his copies of the Aubrey/Maturin novels.

"It is good to have you home," Neroon said when he'd received the crystal. "And I will enjoy viewing some of the history of your world, through the words of this story." he took his leave, and Marcus set about unpacking before losing himself in the archaic account of a Warrior who changed not only the internal beliefs of the Star Riders, but over the centuries since his death the beliefs of the Warrior Caste in its entirety.

***

"Would you object if we combined the next two rituals?" Neroon asked, as they took a light lunch on one of the second floor balconies some days later. The dishes were kept warm by the closest thing Marcus had ever found on Minbar to a hotplate, and with the sun shining down on a yard full of the Clan's children - including their own Fara - building snow forts and engaging in mock warfare, despite the bite to the air Marcus found it entirely comfortable.

"Depends on what they are," Marcus qualified.

"A shared meditation again, and the second ritual spar," Neroon informed him. "It is a mid-level meditation. More than just sitting together in silence, we must settle into each other's... presence, is the most understandable way I can explain it to you, since you do not have the same mental abilities as a Minbari. Normally, this ritual would begin to form a light empathic connection; I do not know what will happen with us. But I know we settle well together when we meditate. I would spar with you while we are still so connected, if you would allow it."

Marcus shrugged. "I see no objection. But perhaps we should make it through the meditation first; if something goes oddly, we may not be able to spar immediately following."

Neroon nodded. "This is good sense. Shall we begin after lunch?"

"Will the entire Clan be watching us spar again?" Marcus asked.

"Some will," Neroon admitted. "The first ritual fight is open to the public, which usually means the Clans of those involved since no one else cares to travel to see it. The second is open to our Clans, but by custom is generally only attended by our friends. Later, we will spar again, before our families, and then finally alone."

Marcus chuckled. "I notice several of your rituals involve us fighting each other."

"Passion is passion, however it is raised," Neroon answered, and Marcus hid his smile at the look his fiancé shot him.

A wide-flying missile smacked into the balcony not far from Marcus, and he looked down into the yard to see several small faces peering up at him, dread in their expressions. Warrior children were expected to learn to aim almost before they learned to walk, and to have a shot go so far wide of where they'd intended was a grave offence.

Fortunately, Marcus had not been raised Warrior Caste. He excused himself to Neroon, and dropped swiftly over the side of the balcony, tackling the terrified offenders into the nearest convenient snow bank. The children weren't quite sure what to do with the sudden addition of an adult of the Clan into their battle, but Fara was accustomed to Marcus' strange ways. She was soon lobbing snowballs at him as often as she was attacking her nursery-mates, and his laugh rang out below the children's higher squeals as they slowly lost their reserve and included him in the game.

Neroon, watching from the balcony, shook his head. Marcus certainly wasn't Minbari, but watching as he gently aided the youngest and slowest in their efforts towards victory, as well as showing some of the older children how to pack more efficient snowballs and fortify their barricades, he couldn't help but think this was a good thing. The children didn't even realize they were learning from him, and the adult Minbari would never have imagined combining play and teaching this way. Teaching, on Minbar, was kept separate from entertainment.

"He looks happy," his sister observed, coming out onto the balcony.

Neroon nodded. "I think he is. The children certainly are."

"I remember those days," Ardiri sighed wistfully. "I got you a few good hits, before you grew bigger than me."

Neroon paused, then grinned. "Why stop there?" he asked. Before she quite knew what he was doing he'd seized her around the waist and tossed her over the railing into a deep snow bank, following her over and entering the fight on the side opposing Marcus. Ardiri rose out of the snow, giving him an unholy grin and going down again under a barrage from Neroon's hastily organized troops.

***

Marcus hadn't really expected to connect with Neroon in whatever way the Minbari did during their shared meditation. He didn't know whether he'd been born mind-blind, or whether some of his training in EFI had made him that way; Arisian children weren’t tested for psi abilities unless they were obviously present. Since the war, he'd had more than one encounter with human telepaths, and none of them had ended well.

But as he brought his mind up to consciousness he felt something very slightly brushing against his own thoughts, and he looked at Neroon, startled.

Neroon smiled at him. "I am glad this has worked," he said softly.

Marcus couldn't find an appropriate response, so he settled for leaning the short distance between them and kissing his fiancé. His hands tightened on Neroon's wrists when a very slightly alien surge of delight, affection, and open lust brushed against his own familiar responses.

Neroon pulled away after a moment, and rose to open the doors to the small training room they were in, allowing several of the Clan's children, as well as the families of some of the Ingata’s crew, into the room. His family followed behind, with Lennier and Helacann bringing up the rear. Lennier gave Marcus a knowing look as he passed the Ranger, and Marcus stuck his tongue out at the young priest, too happy with the new development to really mind Lennier's teasing.

When the spectators had all taken their positions, Marcus and Neroon faced each other over crossed denn'boks, bowing before shifting back slightly to circle each other. Neroon moved first, whipping the bottom of his pike forward and up, and Marcus moved to meet him before he'd even begun the motion, sensing his intent. The human stumbled slightly, unaccustomed to such awareness of his enemy, and Neroon took full advantage, driving him back across the sanded wooden floor. 

Marcus caught himself swiftly, though, and began returning the blows, weaving his body around and under Neroon's pike more fluidly than he'd ever expected he'd be able to; the new awareness of each other made them even more perfectly matched than they had been before. Marcus had no idea how long they'd been fighting, matching each other's movements as if it was a dance they'd rehearsed for months. He was grinning for the joy of it, laughing when their pikes met with a clash of metal, and Neroon’s sparkling eyes shared his pleasure in the bout.

Eventually, though, weariness began to overwhelm joy, and their perfect rapport began to fray around the edges. Marcus missed following through on a blow, allowing Neroon to slip beneath his guard and rest the end of his pike against the Ranger's ribs in a move remarkably similar to the one that had won him the den'shah. This time, though, Marcus was ready for it and had swung his own pike around, resting it against one of the nerve clusters along Neroon's spine that, hit correctly, could paralyze a Minbari. No one doubted that Marcus knew how to hit it correctly.

"Another draw," Aalann declared from the sidelines, and the spectators began to file out, politely ignoring the two still frozen in the sparring ring. Marcus' arms were locked around Neroon's torso, gripping his pike, while Neroon's hands were in just the right position to seize him if he dropped his weapon. They were staring hard into each other's eyes, breathing heavily, and neither really noticed when the room completely emptied around them. 

Neroon broke first, collapsing his denn'bok and fisting his hands in Marcus' shirt, shoving him back out of the ring and against the wall in a brutal kiss. The sensations that roared through Marcus were to the brief, almost chaste exchange they'd shared earlier as a supernova was to a candle, and he pushed against Neroon's strength, unable to move himself even an inch away from the wall and beyond excited by how well the Minbari could overpower him. 

A sudden, shocking burst of icy water drew them apart, although they didn't let go of each other, and turned them to look at Neroon's mother, standing in the doorway with the hose used to clean the training room floors, Lennier beside her smirking for all he was worth. 

"You'll let go of each other now," Ardminn declared, clearly amused. 

Marcus looked from her, to Neroon, and back again, brain not quite caught up with current events and seeing no reason why he should release his hold on his fiancé.

"Marcus, let go," Lennier chuckled. "Neroon can't, and none of us can pull you away without him attacking us."

Marcus blinked, sense returning more slowly than usual. "I don't want to," he objected.

Lennier hid his face behind his hands, but his snickers were still audible. "Marcus, if you don't let go, you'll invalidate the entire courtship. And Neroon will get a reputation for... hastiness."

Marcus blinked slowly, looking from Neroon to Lennier and back again. "They'd call him a slut because we couldn't hold out for a year?" Marcus yelped.

Lennier couldn't take it anymore, and had to leave the room. His howls of laughter could be heard echoing down the hallway. 

Ardminn, although amused, was somewhat more composed. "I won't have my son's reputation ruined," she stated decidedly. "Nor will I have the two of you undo everything you're working so hard to achieve in a moment of passion. Come, Anla'Shok. Or do I need to bathe you again?"

Marcus shook his head wildly, water flying out from his swinging hair, and leaned in to nuzzle Neroon one last time before regretfully breaking away from his still-dazed fiancé and following his mother-in-law out of the room. 

"Do all Minbari react so intensely?" he asked, curiosity starting to win out.

Ardminn chuckled. "We do not love often or easily, but we do love well and deeply. I am actually surprised; his father and I had to be confined to separate estates for much of our courtship. You display a surprising amount of self-control. Both of you do."

Marcus felt a little better about that, but he was still going to tie that damn hose in knots.

***

"Marcuth!" Fara crowed, as he stepped into the nursery to gather her for her morning lessons. "Papa said he hath to athk you thomething important!" Her slight childish lisp had grown more pronounced by the abandonment of her two front teeth just before Christmas. Marcus had tried to convince her of the existence of a Tooth Fairy, but had been forced to give in to her impeccable logic: where exactly did all the teeth go? He had no answer.

"Important, hmm?" Marcus asked, scooping her up and making sure her robes were tied correctly. "More important than you?"

"No, thilly!" she giggled, seizing his hair as she often did when in his arms. "But important."

"Well, then we'd best go see your papa before we go to lessons, hadn't we?" Marcus asked. This morning, as he did some mornings, he intended to join the Clan children in their classes on Minbari history and natural science. Much of it was new information to him, and the teachers of the Clan had so far welcomed his presence with quiet amusement.

Neroon's rooms were easy to reach from the nursery, and they stepped inside after knocking quickly to find Lennier and Ardminn waiting for them. Marcus hung back closer to the door, still wary of the conspirational looks they tended to share.

"Marcus," Neroon smiled, standing up from the desk he'd been working at and coming over to take the hand that wasn't involved in keeping Fara still.

"Neroon," Marcus smiled back. "What's all this?" 

"The next ritual. Marcus Cole, I formally ask permission to touch you."

Marcus blinked, then looked at Lennier. "I think I'm going to need a cultural translator for this one," he said. "What?"

Lennier chuckled. "Up until now, he's only held you when you were alone. He's asking your permission to touch you in public."

Marcus' eyes cleared, and he nodded, turning back to Neroon who was still waiting for an answer. "Of course, you may touch me whenever you wish, as long as I have permission to do the same." Neroon wouldn’t, of course. They couldn’t touch without giving themselves away, but that didn’t matter as far as the rituals were concerned. It was the permission that was important, not whether or not they acted on it.

Neroon smiled, and dropped a brief, chaste kiss onto his lips, aware of his mother standing close by with her hands clasped behind her back, undoubtedly holding some torture device she was simply itching to turn on them. "I give it, gladly. Now, someone in this room has lessons!"

"I told Marcuth he had to come thee you firtht!" Fara defended, squealing when Neroon tickled her lightly. Marcus had all he could do to hold onto the wriggling bundle.

"Well, he has seen me. Of you go now." Neroon brushed Marcus' hair back in a gesture of farewell. "I'll be busy with Clan business most of the day, I'm afraid. But tomorrow, there will be a family dinner, for the next ritual."

Marcus nodded. "I'll see you there, if not before. Come on, Imp," he continued, putting his daughter down and taking her hand, letting her drag him out of the room while trying to explain, yet again, what exactly an imp was.

***

"So what's special about this dinner?" Marcus asked, as he knelt between Neroon and Lennier, across the table from Ardiri. 

"It's known as the Selection of Plates. You're supposed to prove that you know each other's tastes well, by selecting and arranging the other's plate," Ardiri informed him. "I consulted the cooks at the Anla'Shok facility, and attempted dishes from earth so that you would both have something to enjoy."

Marcus looked down the table. Aside from the Minbari dishes he was familiar with, nothing looked particularly recognizable, but he would refrain from commenting until he'd tasted it. It was the first direct gesture of acceptance he'd gotten from Neroon's sister, and he had no intention of destroying the fragile alliance they were starting to build.

Carefully, remembering the things Neroon had mentioned enjoying over the course of their many and varied discussions, Marcus put together a plate for his fiancé. He felt like he was back in high school, the teacher's gimlet eye fixed on him, waiting for him to make a mistake and dock marks. At that, he was having an easier time than Neroon; although he'd described human cuisine to the Minbari, apart from one or two occasions during his convalescence on Babylon 5 and Christmas dinner at the Ranger facility he'd never eaten it around him. Even if Ardiri's creations had been easily identifiable, Neroon would have struggled.

Eventually, though, the Satai's cunning mind succeeded against the odds, and he presented Marcus with a plate. Aalann nodded her approval to both of them to begin, and after they'd taken the first bites, those around them began their own meal and ceased to stare at them quite so blatantly. Marcus was thankful that his fiancé knew him well enough to include mostly Minbari dishes, spiced meats and vegetables that he enjoyed a great deal. The cuisine of the northern continent tended to be much more flavourful than that of the south, although Marcus had never met anyone who could give a decent explanation of this since the plants and animals needed for the spices all grew near the equator.

He was, however, pleasantly surprised to taste that she'd managed to turn flarn into macaroni and cheese, an old childhood favourite.

*** (Missing Scene: [Northern Light](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1717985))

Marcus stood once again in the small temple of the Star Riders estate. They had been forced to use the tunnels under the estate to get here, since a blizzard the likes of which he had never seen had descended on the mountains and showed no signs of stopping. Anyone caught out in it would die three feet from help, pummelled by winds too forceful to fight, buried under snow that whited out any hope of seeing to make it to safety. Marcus had believed that what he’d seen up until now – snow drifts as tall as his waist, and temperatures below minus thirty – were true winter. Now he believed Neroon, when the Minbari told him that winter wasn’t much more than a quarter over and the worst was yet to come. 

“Are you prepared?” Aalann asked, as she barred the door to the tunnel behind them. Lennier and Ardiri stood nearest them as witnesses.

“We are,” Neroon acknowledged, while Marcus just nodded. 

Ardminn took her place at the altar. “We come to hear the vows of Marcus Cole and Neroon of the Star Riders, who are shield and guard to each other,” she intoned, just as she had the last time her son and his ma’fela had stood before her. “May the universe also hear, and remember.”

Neroon waited until his mother had stepped back, and lifted the small box he’d set on the altar earlier. He knew his family had been puzzled; the courtship vows generally required no props. But after talking with his father and especially after some of the things he’d come to know about Marcus over the human’s Christmas celebration, he’d decided that the only possible way forward was the one he was about to take. It meant adding human elements into their courtship, and if that came back to haunt them later, so be it. Marcus had given so much to him; Neroon intended to give this tiny gesture in return, and anyone who faulted him for it could meet him in battle.

“Marcus Cole,” he began, pausing to make sure his words came out exactly as he intended them. “On this day, before my Clan and yours, I swear vows of continuance to you. I take you, Marcus, forsaking all others, for better and worse, for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live. And should you go to the sea before I, I will hold your memory in my heart until I join you.” He opened the box, and took out a small gold band, subtly inscribed with the Star Riders crest. It was some of the most beautiful work he’d ever seen, and he’d rewarded the jeweller who’d done the work handsomely. 

Looking into his ma’fela’s stunned eyes, he felt like he hadn’t rewarded the woman enough. “Marcus Cole, with this ring I pledge thee my troth,” he finished, in accented but understandable old-fashioned English, the same speech Marcus himself was prone to using in moments of great emotion.

Marcus could only stare at him, heart in his eyes for all to see, and nod thickly, lifting a trembling hand for Neroon to slide the slim band onto his ring finger. Minbari, who did not wear wedding jewellery, would not notice it for having any special significance. But to Marcus, it meant the world, the sky, and all the stars.

“Neroon,” he began, and had to pause to clear his throat. “I continue to be amazed by your care for me. I vow to return it in kind, for as long as we both shall live. Our souls have found each other in this lifetime; I pray that we travel together in all lifetimes to come.” He leaned forward and sealed the vow with a very human gesture, brushing his lips across those of his fiancé. 

Neither one really noticed Ardminn conducting the formalities that bound them together; the vows of continuance were one of the closest Minbari rituals to the human wedding ceremony, and both of them were conscious of it. Marcus registered when their family and friends left the temple, and noted that they’d been left alone after a ritual for the first time in a while.

“They must trust us again,” he quipped, alternately staring at his ring and at his fiancé.

“We have proved that our marriage is more important to us than our passions, by not indulging in them. We will be left alone more often now. They will trust us not to destroy what we are working to build.” He smiled at Marcus’ dazed expression. “Did I surprise you, ah’cala?”

Marcus nodded. “You did. I never thought to wear a wedding band, Neroon.”

Neroon shook his head. “It is not a wedding band, not yet. It is only a – how do you call them, an engagement ring?”

Marcus nodded. “Or a betrothal ring, but that’s rather more old fashioned.”

“You are an old-fashioned sort of human,” Neroon noted. “A betrothal ring. I like that. Why did you never think to wear a symbol of our union?”

“Minbari don’t,” Marcus pointed out. “I agreed to court and marry according to your customs, Neroon. I was happy with that decision. I never expected this.”

Neroon smiled. “Now you are twice as happy. Marcus, you give up so much to be here, with me. You speak my language, eat my food, follow my traditions, worship in my temples. I have not heard you even speak your own language for months, apart from our excursion at Christmas. I do not want you to lose all that you were to gain me. If there are things like this ring that mean much to you, please promise to tell me? I will give you all that I can.”

Marcus looked down at their clasped hands with a smile on his face. “Whither thou goest, I will go, and whither thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people will be my people, and thy God my God.” English sounded strange on his tongue, he spoke it so rarely these days.

Neroon blinked. “What is that?”

“My true vow of continuance, Neroon,” Marcus said, looking up into dark eyes. “It’s from the bible. Whether I ever see another human being again in my life, whether I ever again speak the language of my birth, whether I ever again worship in a church as my ancestors have done, I will still be here. This is my choice, the calling of my heart. I want nothing more nor less than what I have here; a place by your side, in an ancient house far in the country. A house that holds to your oldest traditions and still cares for the land and people under its protection. I want nothing more than you, and our daughter, and our life here as it has been these past months. I love you, Neroon, with all my heart, and I always will.”

Neroon could think of no suitable reply, so he settled for kissing his human love, as gently as he’d ever done anything in his life. And there they remained long into the night.

***

“Just how many of these rituals involve food?” Marcus grumbled to Lennier some days later, as he sat down to yet another formal dinner with Neroon’s Clan. At least it really was the entire Clan this time, and not another slightly awkward dinner with only his immediate family. Neroon’s parents were entirely easy with him, but he and Ardiri had only begun to forge a relationship and he was still afraid of her rejection, more for Neroon’s sake than his own. Neroon would not be able to bear losing another sister. The family rarely spoke of the oldest daughter, who had lost her life aboard the Dralafi in the Earth-Minbari war, but Marcus could sometimes feel her ghost hanging above the conversation.

“Consider the alternative,” Lennier offered cheerfully, leaning closer to Helacann. The two young men had just reached the point where touching in public was permitted, and were relishing in it. Marcus smiled to see them, not at all jealous of their easiness with each other even though he and Neroon could not be so free with their affections. Marcus was old enough, and reserved enough, that their quieter and less-remarked courtship suited him quite well. 

“What’s that?” Marcus asked, curious despite himself.

“Well,” Helacann put in from Lennier’s other side, as they reached the table and took their places between Neroon and a slew of his distant cousins, including Helacann’s parents. “The Religious Caste insists on testing you by fasting. So we’ve been alternately starved and stuffed for the past couple of weeks.” 

Marcus chuckled. “I thought you were looking a little odd at dinner last week. At this rate, you’ll be married before we are!”

Lennier blushed, and Helacann laughed happily. “Yes, but we are young, unimportant, and carefree. We are not trying to change the world. We can afford to skip through the rituals blithely; we’re almost expected to.”

Marcus eyeballed the couple. “Lennier, if I ever see you skipping blithely, may I knock you down and sit on you?”

“Please do,” the young priest requested, regaining his composure and elbowing Helacann lightly in his ribs. “I certainly do not intend to do such a thing in my right mind!”

Laughter rang out around them as others caught the tail end of their conversation, and it flowed on to other things. But under the light banter Marcus could feel an edge of tension, and he wondered at it. Neroon’s eyes, even when he was laughing, were graver than they had been recently and Marcus tried not to worry. It was too soon, he wanted to object. To soon for the world to intrude on his happiness; it was barely four months since the Shadows had been driven away. 

“What is it?” he asked Neroon quietly, during a lull between courses. 

Neroon shook his head. “Nothing concrete, not yet. And not here. But there are whispers of trouble from the southern continent, from the major populations centers. I fear that the destruction of the Grey Council is finally filtering down into the Caste tensions that never really went away with Valen’s Ban. I think perhaps it is time to contact Delenn again; it is possible that conflict is coming to Minbar.”

“Civil war?” Marcus asked, shocked. “Has Minbar ever had a civil war?”

“No,” Nerlin interrupted their conversation, leaning around his son so he didn’t have to raise his voice. “Clan warfare, yes, but an actual outright civil war between the Castes, no. If it comes to that it will tear the Clans apart, even if the Castes survive. And I doubt they will.”

Marcus looked closely at his father-in-law, and saw for the first time an old man worn down under the burdens of a long life. And he wondered, for the first time, what kind of battles Nerlin had fought against his own Caste to be permitted a priestess for a wife and a cook for a daughter, when he was a pureblood descendant of one of the oldest Warrior families – if Minbari had royalty, he would be counted among them. Nerlin had stood against tradition and Caste separation long before Minbar had even begun to open its borders and its mind to the possibilities brought by younger races, and Marcus’ respect for the man jumped up another few notches. He bowed slightly to the older Minbari, and changed the subject subtly. The flash of gratitude in Neroon’s eyes as some of the lines smoothed from his father’s face was more than enough thanks for the Ranger.

***

“Again?” Marcus asked in consternation. “You must be joking. The snowdrifts out there are taller than I am. More than half the Clan hasn’t left the estate in a week, because they can’t be bothered to fight your bloody weather. And you want me to do what?”

Neroon sighed the sigh of someone who’d already had this conversation. Repeatedly. “I want you to climb to the top of sus’torr with me. My father, Helacann, and Lennier will accompany us.”

“You must be mad,” Marcus countered again. “Sus’torr? Doesn’t that mean ‘high land’? How high are we talking about?”

Neroon sighed again. “I have told you this already. Sus’torr is the highest cliff in the mountains surrounding this estate. There are well-marked climbing paths, and ledges along the way to rest if you require. It is regularly cleared of ice for those who enjoy winter sports, and is quite safe.”

“Rock climbing is not a winter sport, Neroon. Ice hockey is a winter sport. Figure skating is a winter sport. Bloody ski jumping is a winter sport. This is suicide waiting to happen.”

Neroon shook his head. Clearly there was only one way to win this argument. He snuck up behind his ranting ma’fela and caught him in a tight embrace. “Marcus, we must go on an outdoor excursion. I am sorry that we are courting in winter, but I am not willing to wait until the snow melts to continue the steps of this dance. I wish to marry you as soon as possible, so we must climb the cliff. I promise you, the view from the top is worth every sore muscle you will gain on the way up. I have rarely seen anything so beautiful; it seems as though you can see forever, and the whole world will be clothed in diamond. The mountain which holds the Temple of Vareni will rise above us, and on a clear day like today the Temple chimes will ring throughout the mountains.”

Marcus squirmed, and muttered something half-hearted about chimes and avalanches, but finally agreed. 

Nearly a full day later, as he stood in Neroon’s arms watching the sun as it set over the rocky, glacial landscape of northern Minbar and turn the snow to blinding white fire, he had to admit that Neroon was right. There was nothing like this anywhere else in the universe, he was sure, and he suddenly understood something Kosh had reputedly said to Sheridan about beauty in darkness. You found the most wondrous things in the universe in the most unexpected places.

He looked up into Neroon’s eyes, and smiled happily. Yes indeed. The most unexpected places of all.

***

“You’ll enjoy today,” Neroon promised, entering Marcus’ sitting room on the morning of the next ritual. According to the human calendar Marcus insisted on consulting, it was entering the last week of January. According to Minbari reckoning it was nearly halfway through winter, and in a few more weeks there would be a massive celebration to mark the shortest day of the year. Minbari New Year. Marcus was quite looking forward to it.

“What’s today?” Marcus inquired suspiciously.

“It’s called the day of children,” Neroon grinned. “We’re going to be taking care of the children of the Clan. To give us some experience, should we ever decide to have some of our own, but also to make sure that we value all members of the Clan. Fara is quite excited; I had to bribe her to keep it a secret from you this long.”

Marcus gaped at him. “You bribed our daughter?” he demanded.

“Only with an extra share of desert,” Neroon countered, sensing he’d put a foot wrong, but not entirely sure how to make up the lost ground.

Marcus stared at him for another moment, then shook his head, burying it in his arms as he howled with laughter. “You bribed our daughter with desert to keep silent about this?” he repeated. “Neroon! Don’t you know anything about raising children, after all these months? You never bribe them with extra desert! They’ll start to think up all sorts of ways to make you keep doing it!”

Neroon shrugged a little sheepishly, dropping his already badly damaged Warrior dignity to acknowledge his ma’fela’s point. “Not the best decision, then,” he admitted.

“I should say!” Marcus wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, and sobered a bit. “But Neroon, what did you tell their parents? How can we complete this ritual if their parents don’t know what’s going on?”

Neroon winked. “It’s taken care of, love. I told them that you knew an entirely different set of games and fighting skills, and that you’d offered to spend a day with them, teaching them, in between your stays at the Anla’Shok facility. If you did not train the young Anla’Shok, they would have had reservations, but they know now that you are a teacher, and highly regarded by Sech Durhan himself. They are pleased that you will take their children in hand for a time. Also, the children have been housebound now for three weeks. I believe the parents are almost to the point where they would hand them off to a fleet of Narns, simply to have some peace. I, of course, am coming along to observe and assist, because an Alyt can naturally have nothing left to learn from a mere human.” 

Marcus glared at him, but the twinkle in Neroon’s eyes was as infectious as his expression was serious. “You are a demon,” Marcus declared. “And I’ll see to it that you work just as hard as the children, in return for it.”

They left Marcus’ quarters together, dressed in the light black robes and trousers tucked into boots that were favoured as house wear by most of the Warriors. Marcus quite liked the clothing; it was not unlike some of the oriental styles from earth, and it was both comfortable and easy to move in.

The children of the Clan were waiting for them on the floor of one of the large training halls, chattering amongst themselves but far calmer and more collected than Marcus had ever seen in a group of human children their age. The youngest, just moved up out of the nurseries, was about three cycles – perhaps four years old, if he was human – and the oldest was only weeks away from her 17th birthday, when she would select a Caste and begin training for her future – the equivalent of a human of about fourteen or fifteen, Marcus guessed. Not yet an adult, but not entirely a child, either. All together there were around two hundred children; the Clan had more, of course, but several were with their parents aboard the Clan ships, and several others who could claim Star Riders kinship did not live on the estate.

“Good morning,” Marcus called cheerfully, bowing to the assembled youngsters.

“Good morning, Sech Marcus,” they responded, scrambling to their feet with varying amounts of grace and bowing to him in turn.

Marcus gestured them to sit back down, and flopped to the floor himself, wrapping his arms around his upraised knees. “Are you usually all in lessons together like this?” he asked, pretending he didn’t already know the answer. 

“Of course, Sech,” one of the older ones answered him.

Marcus nodded. “I ask, because human children would normally be divided into smaller groups based on age.”

“That seems like a poor way to do things,” another student called. “Forgive me, Sech,” he said a moment later, when he realized how far away from him his tongue had run.

“Not at all. Why doesn’t it seem like an effective strategy?” Marcus asked.

“Well, because different children learn at different speeds. And because then, the only people you ever learn to deal with are your immediate year mates. What happens when you have to function as a member of your Clan?” the child asked.

“Reasonable questions,” Marcus grinned. “What might the advantage be to such a situation, though?”

“A strongly-bound unit of year mates?” someone called.

“Partially,” Marcus answered. “You’re thinking like a Minbari, though. For a Minbari, such an approach would be completely wrong. You’d never learn anything about Clan dynamics, how to take care of those younger than you, how to lead, how to follow. It just wouldn’t work. What is different about humans that makes it work?”

Silence greeted him. “Nobody?” he asked.

“Why is this relevant?” one of the children asked.

Marcus grinned. “Excellent question!” he congratulated the girl. “Because if you ever intend to fight beside – or against, although I hope it never comes to that again – someone, you have to know much more than their command structure. You have to know who they are, how they think, and WHY. Nothing is as important as knowing why. If you know why they do things a certain way you can plan around it, but more importantly, when plans change – and they always do in war – you can adapt your plan on the fly.”

“So, like, if we know that humans aren’t ever going to think in terms of their Clan, we can make sure that battle plans don’t depend on Clan coming to the rescue, or something?” a confused voice asked.

“Precisely,” Marcus smiled. “Both systems have advantages and disadvantages. You children are raised here in the Clan compound, and you’ve got all the older children as well as your teachers to learn from. You also only learn those things you have an aptitude for past a basic level; this means that whatever you’re good at, you’re really really good at. Human children, though, are taught outside of the Clan, in year groups, and they’re taught a range of subjects to an advanced level whether they’re any good at them or not. Humans don’t chose a profession until they’re adults, whereas you choose when you’re children and then apprentice in that field.”

“I get it!” called an excited voice. “So the best combination would really be a Minbari and a human working together, because we’re really good at what we do, but if things go wrong, they’re really good at working outside their field!”

Marcus shot Neroon an amused look. “Well, I don’t know if that’s the best combination, but it’s certainly one that hasn’t been tried much, because our people are a little bit afraid of each other.”

“But why are they taught things outside their field?” Another voice asked. “I mean, if they’re not any good at, say, accounting, but they’re going to be an amazing musician, why should they bother to learn accounting? Someone else in the Clan will be able to help them with it.”

“Humans don’t have Clans,” Marcus explained. “So if they’re no good at it, they’ll have to hire someone to do it for them. And they’ll need to know that that person can be trusted, so they need to know enough to be able to check their numbers at first. Or do it themselves.”

“Which do you think is a better system?” someone asked.

Marcus paused for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “There are advantages and disadvantages to both, as I said. Both systems work well for the people who need to use them; a completely different system is in place on, say, Centauri Prime. As long as it works for the people who need to use it, isn’t that what matters?”

“I believe there is a Worker Caste proverb,” Neroon put in, from where he was lurking at the side. “If it works, use it. If it doesn’t, find something else.”

Marcus and the children chuckled, and Marcus nodded his agreement. “Exactly. And I believe that’s enough theory of education for the moment. Let’s try something a little bit more active. Have any of you ever heard of the game ‘tag’?”

Blank stares and shaken heads answered him, and he grinned fiercely. “Excellent. You,” he selected one of the children at random, “are ‘It’.”

“What?” the child asked, confused.

“You’re ‘It’,” Marcus repeated. “Tag is about strategy, alliances, and quick thinking. One player is selected to be ‘It’, and he or she has to chase all of the other players. There are several different versions. I believe we’ll begin with freeze tag; if the ‘It’ manages to catch and touch you, you must freeze in place. It’s also a test of muscle control. You have to stand completely still. The game goes on until the ‘It’ either catches all of you, or admits defeat.”

Stares met him, with slowly dawning mayhem in some eyes. Marcus grinned. “What are you waiting for? He’s ‘It’, and he’s standing right in the middle of all of you! Go!”

Pandemonium erupted. Neroon shot him an amazed look. “Humans really let their children run about like this?”

Marcus chuckled. “And more. After this, I’ll teach them British Bulldog, and then maybe they’ll have worn themselves out enough that a story or two wouldn’t go amiss.” His eyes sparkled with the fun of the day.

Neroon listened to the happily shrieking children, the occasional snick as a padded practice denn’bok snapped open to aid in a hasty escape, and the laughter of the man who claimed his heart as he moved through the chaos directing strategy, offering advice, and dodging pint-sized missiles. He thought that, when all this was over and Marcus’ duty to the Rangers was at last discharged to the human’s satisfaction, maybe it would be time to see if a position could be found for him here teaching the children of the Clan. Neroon had never seen his ma’fela happier than he was at this moment. 

Later that night, as they flopped exhausted onto the couch in Marcus’ rooms, the human still radiated an air of absolute joy.

“I think they wore you out, love,” Neroon opined, smiling.

“Me?” Marcus contradicted. “Who was it who just had to go one more round of football?”

Neroon shook his head, pulling Marcus closer. “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” he denied, interrupted by a humongous yawn. The fire was warm; his ma’fela was a comfortable weight in his arms. Slowly, to the accompaniment of crackling logs, they both drifted off to sleep.

Some hours later Ardminn quietly snuck through the unlocked door, trailed by her husband. She smiled to see her son and his chosen curled up on the sofa together, clearly at peace. It was a shame they’d have to be moved. She eased the human out of her son’s light hold, picking him up and carrying him through the door that led to his bedroom, removing his cloak and boots as she laid him in the piled covers. Behind her, Nerlin picked their son up as gently and easily as he had many years ago when the then-child Neroon had fallen asleep in a variety of improbable locations. She had just turned the light off and moved to follow them when a whiff of some scent she’d never smelled before caught her attention.

There on the altar to one side of Marcus’ rooms, before the candles and beside a small wooden box, stood a single flower in a crystal vase. Perhaps it was a human thing, to put flowers on an altar, although she couldn’t imagine how it had survived the journey from wherever it had been cut. Ardminn bowed politely to the altar, and was sure it was just a trick of the light that the flower seemed to bow back.

***

Nerlin caught up to his future son as Marcus exited the sparring gym. His face was grave, and Marcus waved the young Warriors he’d been exercising with on ahead, following Nerlin’s gestured lead to a small alcove that held a tiny bubbling fountain. Such little corners of beauty were everywhere on the estate, often used by those seeking a quiet moment away from the family. Minbari were a private people, and no one intruded on anyone else’s business intentionally, but with a thousand or more loosely related people in residence, especially in deep winter when it was difficult or impossible to spend large amounts of time outdoors, sometimes one simply needed a quiet corner.

“What is it? Has something happened to Neroon?” Marcus asked, his first thought for his fiancé, away on a snow-scouting mission with the current graduating class of Warrior candidates. He was due back that afternoon and they were to complete the next ritual when he arrived. Neroon had been strangely preoccupied before he’d left, refusing to answer Marcus’ questions about what exactly that ritual would entail.

“No,” Nerlin answered immediately, eyes warming in approval. “Nothing like that. My wife has simply brought it to my attention that you are not Minbari, and do not always know what is coming next in the rituals you have agreed to follow. It seems obvious now, but you’ve been doing so well I thought someone must have instructed you. It never occurred to me that Lennier and my son were teaching you as you went along, and now with Lennier gone to complete some of his own rituals…” Nerlin trailed off.

“Have I done something wrong?” Marcus asked, worried now.

“No,” Nerlin said again. “No, you’ve done nothing. Do you know what the ritual you are scheduled to undergo tonight is?” 

Marcus shook his head. “Neroon told me to go to the temple, to meet him. I assumed it would be more meditation, or another set of vows.” Nerlin’s expression unnerved him slightly. “I take it that isn’t the case?”

Nerlin shook his head. “No. And while I understand how my son would have been uncomfortable telling you this, I must also make a note to trounce him thoroughly for almost allowing you to walk into such a situation unprepared.”

Marcus’ eyes widened. “Please, Nerlin, just tell me. I’m quite sure my imagination is doing me no good right now. It’s not ritual sex, is it?”

Nerlin finally lightened a bit, and he snorted. “No, although it wouldn’t be surprising. No, I’m afraid that the next ritual is the ritual of pain.”

Marcus blinked. “Pain?”

Nerlin nodded. “Normally, now, this is not done. A ritualised form of the den’shah is fought. The ‘death’ is of the misconception that anyone can escape hurting the ones they love, whether they intend to or not. Our romantic young people would like to believe that they will die before they let harm come to a lover; this is not the case, and better that they learn before they are married that they can and will hurt each other.”

Marcus frowned, then nodded. “I can see the point. But we’ve already fought den’shah.”

Nerlin sighed. “I know. And that is why you cannot use the more modern form of the ritual. Because you have already fought, the Council of Elders would say that the ritual is invalid. That you learn nothing, because you already know the outcome of den’shah between you, but you did not have the emotional connection when you learned the lesson to make it part of the courtship. Circular reasoning, since it is the den’shah that led to your emotions in the first place. And flawed. But it is what they will say, and Neroon knows it. You must perform the older version of the ritual.”

Marcus’ expression was grave. “What exactly does that entail?” he asked, not sure he wanted to know.

Nerlin would not meet his eyes. “You will meet him in the temple. His immediate family will be there, and so will a Hela’mer. If your family were here, they would be present as well, but as it is… Ardiri has volunteered to stand as your chaperone. Neroon will say something to you, and you must respond in kind. You must attempt to hurt him, as much as you can, with your words. Then he will strike you, and you must strike back; neither one of you must attempt to block the blow, or the ritual will be invalid.”

Marcus stared at him. “You want me to cause deliberate, pre-mediated injury to your son, both physically and emotionally, in front of witnesses?” he clarified. “To prove that I love him?”

“Not to prove that you love him,” Nerlin denied. “We know you do. To prove that you will still love him, after such a thing has been said and done. I swear to you, Marcus, there is a purpose to it. After, you will be left together; you must work through the pain you cause each other. If you cannot, then the engagement will be broken and no more will ever be said about it.”

Marcus shook his head. “This goes against everything I believe in. Is this a Warrior ritual?” he asked. “Do others of your people practice it?”

“Actually,” Nerlin informed him, “It was originally a ritual of the Religious Caste. And yes, all perform it. I did so with his mother, and she also chose the older form. She had no wish to fight den’shah with me. And I am glad we did, because there have been moments – not many, but moments – when one or both of us lashed out in anger or in pain at the person closest to us, even though they did not deserve it. But we knew, because of the ritual, that such a thing had happened already and our love had survived it. It is something to cling to in the darkest days, when things have gone horribly wrong. When you have buried a child, or been turned from the home of your birth.”

Marcus bowed his understanding. “I thank you for telling me. If you will excuse me, I must go prepare myself for this. I do not know what I can possibly say to him, to cause him such hurt.”

Some of the lines on Nerlin’s face grew deeper. “There was once a human colony, a farm colony, during the war. I do not remember the name, but it would not be an untruth to say that, in the week after the loss of the Dralafi, he butchered them without mercy.”

Marcus’ eyes were haunted by shadows the older Minbari could not read, but he drew himself up as proudly as any king. “If we are to talk of sins committed in wartime, then his confession would be somewhat shorter than mine. I believe I will find my own words, without recourse to mistakes we both made in the service of our people. But I thank you for telling me; it is something we will discuss. Someday. When the shadows of the past are a little farther from us.”

Nerlin bowed, and watched the human walk away. He hoped he hadn’t said too much; the coming ritual would not be pleasant for anyone. And he had told a minor untruth; Sech Turval had come from the Anla’Shok training centre to act as Hela’mer, despite only minimal training in medicine. Haynwa was aboard the Ingata, and the family could afford to trust no one else with this secret. It was becoming a heavier burden by the day.

Marcus wandered aimlessly after leaving Nerlin’s company, lost in thought and unsure where to turn. Oh, he understood the Minbari’s reasons. He even agreed with them. He’d seen far too many humans marry young, starry-eyed with the promise of eternal love, only to be brutally shocked when life’s sour moments muted their joy. He’d seen too many relationships fall apart under the weight of romantic ideals. But what could he possibly say to Neroon to cause him that level of hurt? Lashing out in anger, as Nerlin had admitted to doing, was one thing; things were said in anger that could not be even thought of in the present cold, calculated circumstances.

Eventually the chiming of the estate bells broke through his thoughts, tolling out the sunset knell. It was time he took his place in the temple. He went with his head held high, purpose and a slowly simmering irritation his only companions. His hand fell to the ancient denn’bok at his waist, a gift from all three of his teachers upon his graduation from Ranger training. In a sense, he supposed, the weapon was a gift from Valen himself. He hoped he could be worthy of it.

He entered the temple first and took a moment to compose himself, standing tall and proud before the altar. He turned when the door opened, admitting Neroon’s family and Sech Turval. Marcus raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn’t comment on the other man’s presence. It answered the question of where they had found a trustworthy Hela’mer, with Haynwa gone. 

But none of that mattered. Nothing mattered except for the Minbari walking towards him, Neroon as Marcus had not seen him since their first meeting, when he had looked up at a coldly sneering face and courted death. Something snapped a little inside, and suddenly Marcus was well beyond irritated and closing in on true anger.

“Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?” he demanded, before Neroon could open his mouth. The Minbari halted, frowning as the situation was taken out of his control.

“It’s all about you, isn’t it?” Marcus went on, seeing no reply was forthcoming. “You’ll be second to the Shai Alyt. You’ll be Satai. You’ll be Anla’Shok Na. You’ll take a human husband. Do you ever stop and think what your blithe disregard for anyone else’s opinion does to those around you?”

“Do you?” Neroon retaliated. “At least I have never made a habit of throwing myself at death, hoping it will catch me!”

Marcus growled. That was a low blow, but then, that was sort of the point, wasn’t it? “No, you just throw others that way! As long as you survive, that’s all that matters, isn’t it? As long as you are in charge. You really think you’re something special.”

Neroon shook his head in denial, eyes sparking. “And you think you are nothing at all. Do you have any idea –”

Marcus interrupted him. “Do I have any idea? No! Of course I don’t! Because you never tell me, do you? I had to find out from your father what was to occur here today! Did it ever occur to you to tell me yourself? Coward!”

“Coward!” Neroon roared, angry now instead of resigned. The Minbari word for coward was much stronger than its English counterpart; Neroon had every right to be enraged. “And I suppose it takes a brave man, to hide from his past? To keep secrets about everything, so that those who care for him must find out from news broadcasts and rumours that he was once a -”

Marcus cut him off again; he wasn’t willing to go there quite yet. Not even for this. “I at least keep silent to spare my own sanity and the respect of the people I love! Would you respect me, if I told you all that I was once part of? But you!” he snorted. “You tread over people’s wishes as though you were the king of the universe! Oh, poor Neroon, no one loved Branmer like you did, so you’ll go ahead and display his body in state instead of abiding by his wishes! Poor Neroon, who lost his sister, so he’ll hate all humans! Poor Neroon, who felt cheated because his childhood rival had something he didn’t, so he broke the bloody Grey Council! Don’t pretend it was all Delenn’s fault! You had no business accepting a seat there! You unbalanced the Council, Neroon, not Delenn! And then, when she broke it rather than stand by and watch Valen’s decrees shatter, what did you do? You conspired against her, sought to take power over the Anla’Shok so that she couldn’t! 

“I know what you said, when you threw your pike at her!” he shouted. “I know! ‘They would not die for me, Delenn’, you said! For you, Neroon! You, because you are so far above your people that all the rules should be broken for you! Are you truly so arrogant as to believe that you can be Satai, and the Shai Alyt’s chosen, and Clan heir, and the head of the Rangers? Where does it end, Neroon? Your entire life has been a game of one-upmanship with Delenn! What am I, even? Do you love me, or am I just a final way of flipping Delenn the bird, showing that she might have won the war, but you at least took her friends with you when you lost?”

Silence rang in the temple, and Marcus could tell that he’d gone too far; the look in Neroon’s eyes was haunted. But he couldn’t be sorry; he’d meant every word. He hadn’t realized how much, until he’d said them. Not being informed of the ritual was the final straw; Neroon had to realize that, privileged or no, Clan heir or no, Satai or no, he could not pass through life as arrogantly as he had, blithely assuming that the world would follow his whim.

Neroon’s eyes showed the depth of his reaction, but they also showed a calm, icy anger. “At least,” he spat after a moment, “I did not think myself so arrogant that my world died because I would not listen.”

Marcus had been expecting that attack; it was the easiest, most vulnerable point for Neroon to hit. But expecting it had not prepared him for the sucker-punch reaction he had to hearing those words spat out in beloved tones overlaid with ice. He pulled his weapon, and screamed as he aimed it at his fiancé. And if the tears on his cheeks were as much for Neroon’s pain as for his own, well, no one would be able to tell.

Neroon dropped to his knees under the blow; Marcus had studied Minbari anatomy, and had struck one of the nerve clusters at the shoulder. It would be some days before the Warrior would be able to make full use of that arm; fortunately, it was not his weapon arm. Neroon struck back coldly, his heart breaking with the snapping sound of Marcus’ wrist as the human cried out in pain and dropped his weapon to the floor, clutching his own arm to his chest.

“Enough,” Turval decreed, stepping in with a small bag of medical equipment. He quickly stabilized their injuries and bound both their arms, Neroon’s in a sling, Marcus’ in a splint from the forearm down over his hand. He waved the family out of the temple in front of him, leaving the two lovers bent, broken, and silent on the stone floor.

It was several minutes before Marcus could bear to look at his Minbari companion. “How could you?” he asked quietly, the anger gone and replaced with resigned pain.

“Which of my sins are you asking about?” Neroon wondered, his own voice simply tired.

“How could you not tell me what we would face in here?” Marcus wondered. “I could bear anything, Neroon, as long as you are by my side. But you weren’t. You hid from me.”

“How could I tell you?” Neroon asked in return. “How could I go to the man I love and tell him that I intend to deliberately cause him pain? Especially when I know how your culture views such things. Commander Ivanova threatened to kill me if I hurt you, when I asked them if I could court you. Our cultures are so different.” Neroon shook his head.

“Too different?” Marcus asked. “Do you have second thoughts, Neroon?” 

Neroon snapped his gaze up immediately, meeting Marcus’ eyes seriously. “Not of you,” he insisted. “But sometimes, I wonder about the situation we are in. It is very hard to walk among legends and not feel the weight of the universe crushing you.”

Marcus sighed, and shifted a bit closer so that he could lean into Neroon’s side. “Then let us walk together, and share the burden,” he suggested. “I’m not angry with you, Neroon. I think things have been said tonight that we need to discuss. We haven’t spoken overmuch of our pasts, and we must. But it’s the future that concerns me now. I wish to make a life here, with you. We’re both pig-headed Warriors sometimes, convinced that our way is right. It will cause disagreements. May I ask you to make me two promises?”

Neroon nodded, resting his cheek against Marcus’ soft hair. “If you will make me a promise as well. What would you have me do?”

“Never let us part company in anger,” Marcus asked. “The universe has too fickle a sense of humour.”

Neroon chuckled a bit at that. “It does indeed. I had not thought of that, but I like it. Very well, I will promise this. And the second?” 

“That you think of the consequences to those who love you before you act, so that things like… the things I accused you of… can never happen again. You’re not always in the right, Neroon. And you need to start telling me things.”

Neroon nodded tiredly. “I promise. I… have not always made the best decisions. It is hard, sometimes, to see what the best path is, when those older and wiser than I am are urging me down another.”

Marcus nodded. “I forget sometimes that, by Minbari standards, you aren’t much older than I am. You carry your authority so well, that it’s hard not to think of you as much older.”

Neroon shrugged uncomfortably. “It is not a good thing, to have too much authority too young. It’s been a long time since there were Satai as young as Delenn and I. I think it was a mistake. We’ve both done harm, in our enthusiasm and arrogance.”

“Those older and wiser would have done no better,” Marcus countered. “Sometimes the fire of youth is needed, to light the way for change. What would you ask of me?”

“Talk to me, Marcus,” Neroon pleaded softly, words lost in hair that shone ebony in the candlelight. “Don’t let things build up to the point where a display like tonight’s is possible. You frightened me; I thought I saw a return to the man who hurled himself at death and hoped it would catch him. I never want to see that man again. Lennier told me that you repressed all your emotions when you came to the Anla’Shok, and that they taught you to let them out in battle. Perhaps that did you some good, but now you have no one left to fight, and I see you repressing more and more as time goes on. We must find a way for you to release such feelings without violence. I have no wish to lose you, having found you.”

Marcus sighed, and nodded. “That, I will promise to attempt. I don’t know if I will succeed.”

“I will help you all I can,” Neroon promised. “And Marcus? Please believe that no matter what you’ve done in the past, I will always respect you.”

Marcus hugged him awkwardly, and shifted a bit on the hard floor. “We should get up,” he commented, changing the subject.

Neroon grunted. “I don’t want to let go of you.”

Marcus smiled at him, the shadows receding but not entirely gone from his eyes. “Is there a hidden way into your family’s wing from here?”

Neroon sighed. “It will be cold, and full of insects. But yes.” He slowly levered himself up, collecting their weapons. “Come. No one will separate us tonight.” He offered his ma’fela a hand up, and pulled him into a one-armed embrace when they were both standing. “I love you, Marcus Cole,” he murmured in English. “Never forget that.”

Marcus kissed him briefly, tasting of tears and exhaustion. “As long as you don’t forget that I love you, Neroon of the Star Riders,” he returned, in Adrihi’e. Neroon was impressed with his command of the ancient language, and wondered how long he’d studied to learn to express such sentiments.

Marcus’ couch was soft and comfortable. By the time Neroon left in the early hours of the morning, many demons had been laid to rest beside it and his sleeping ma’fela looked younger and less care-worn that he had in Neroon’s memory.

***

“I must ask your forgiveness,” Lennier said a few days later, when Marcus opened his door in response to the younger man’s knock. It could barely be considered morning; Lennier must have just gotten back.

Marcus blinked in surprise, then gestured him in, moving to get them both cups of tea. “For what?” he asked.

“Not being here. I assumed that Neroon would speak to you. For that I am sorry. I can’t imagine having no friends or family to stand beside me during the ritual of pain.” He bowed deeply, and stayed there.

Marcus sighed. Minbari guilt at its finest. “I can hardly expect you to put your life on hold for mine, Lennier. It all worked out.” Lennier still didn’t move. “Oh, very well, you have my forgiveness if you need it, but there’s nothing to forgive, Lennier!”

Lennier straightened. “I think there is, but we will say no more about it. Today is the halfway point; you will complete the twenty-fifth ritual.”

Marcus counted them up in his head, and realized his friend was right. He grinned slightly. “Thank God,” he murmured devoutly. “It’s half over.”

“You are not enjoying it?” Lennier asked carefully, eyes worried.

“It isn’t that,” Marcus reassured him. “I’ve loved most of the rituals. But I am quite ready to be finished and married.”

Lennier smiled slightly. “That, I can understand. At this rate I think Helacann and I actually will be married before you.”

Marcus gave him a friendly glare. “Thanks ever so much for that reminder,” he griped. “What’s today’s ritual, oh great chaperone?”

“The first of a two-day series in which you exchange family life,” Lennier informed him. “Normally, you see, you would not be living here. Normally you would remain with your own Clan until the actual marriage ceremony. So in the middle, you take two days and live a day in the family life of the other. Since you are here, and already have a great deal of experience with family life on Neroon’s estate, I do not know what he will have you do tomorrow. Possibly, it will just be a day like any other. But today is your day.”

Marcus paled slightly. “Lennier, how can I do that? My family is gone and my world is in ashes.”

“Did you not have small things, like eating a meal together, that could be done anywhere?” Lennier asked. “It is not required that you walk in the places of your childhood, Marcus. Only that you share a little of your past, of happy memories, with the one who will own your future.”

Marcus calmed at that. “That, I can do. I’ll need to prepare, though.”

Lennier nodded. “Of course. I’ll show myself out, unless you require assistance?”

Marcus shook his head, deep in thought. “No, Lennier, that’s all right. I know you must be tired from the flight up from the temple. Besides, I don’t believe you know any more than Neroon about daily life among human families.”

Lennier nodded his agreement. “I probably don’t. Good morning, then, Marcus. I will see you later.” He took himself out, and Marcus set about making what preparations he could on short notice with only Minbari things around him.

It didn’t take long, and when he was finished he knelt before the small altar he kept in his rooms, as most Minbari did. He was silent for a while, simply letting the peace of the moment wash over him. He didn’t know how long he knelt there before a soft knock came on his door.

Neroon was waiting for him when he opened it, for the first time since Marcus had known him completely lacking any decoration that hinted at his rank or Caste. For all you could tell from his clothing, he might’ve been anyone, from anywhere on Minbar. Marcus smiled.

“Looks good on you,” he commented, letting his fiancé into the room.

Neroon shook his head. “I am unused to being without some kind of Clan insignia. I find it vaguely uncomfortable, but for today I am not Neroon of the Star Riders. I am of your Clan.”

“Neroon Cole,” Marcus grinned. “I don’t know, it has a nice ring to it.” Neroon growled at him playfully, and Marcus laughed. “Lennier came by to tell me what we’re doing today. I would like you to join me for breakfast, if you would; your sister helped me find something that resembles a proper English breakfast a few weeks ago, and I’d like you to join me in trying it.”

“Did your family often eat together at breakfast?” Neroon wondered.

“Whenever we could. It was a chance to go over our plans for the day. At least when we were younger.”

Neroon smiled. “Then I would be glad to join you for breakfast.”

Marcus set about collecting the ingredients and frying them up in his small kitchen. It wasn’t quite his mother’s home cooking – or even his father’s – but it was at least mostly familiar. It brought back memories of many happy mornings spent chopping, stirring, and basically getting underfoot, and without really noticing he began to talk, telling Neroon of those days. They were happy days, too, he realised. In his anguish over his dead he’d never really sat back to consider how they’d lived and the kind of people they’d been. The sort of people who would chase loved ones around the kitchen while brandishing a spatula, or seize each other and waltz with the cutlery. The sort of people who would sing cheerful snatches of whatever, ancient or modern, caught their interest at the moment. Marcus’ own highly eclectic tastes and personality had been formed in that little kitchen on Arisia. 

Neroon smiled when their meal was done and Marcus finally ran out of words. “Thank you.”

“I’ve never told anybody most of that,” Marcus wondered. “I didn’t even know I remembered some of it.”

“Will you show me more?” Neroon asked. “What did your family do after breakfast?”

“When we were young, Will and I would go to lessons and our parents would go to work,” Marcus remembered. “I don’t think reliving any of that would be interesting.”

Neroon shrugged. “I think it could be. What were your lessons in? I have never heard what human schools are like.”

“You want me to put you through a day in primary school?” Marcus asked, somewhat incredulously.

“Yes.”

“All right. But remember that you asked for it.” Marcus began calling up everything he could remember learning in school, which turned out to be almost as eclectic if somewhat more organized than what he’d learned around the breakfast table. Unsurprising, given that his mother was the teacher.

The day continued, going through the motions of a Cole family lunch, eaten on the run, an afternoon spent in physical activity – food for the body, as the morning was food for the mind, his mother had always said. During the afternoons they’d learned from whichever miner had time to spare, picking up a mix of dance, martial arts, and games from around the galaxy. Dinner had always been eaten together, sharing the events of the day and discussing any problems that had come up, so that they couldn’t become big ones later on without someone knowing where they’d begun. 

After dinner the elder Coles had sat the boys down, and there in the fading light of Arisia’s dusk Marcus had learned about faith. Not just his own, although that had been a big part of it, but as much as his parents could teach him. Will had hated the lessons, thought they were boring, but Marcus had soaked them up like a sponge. Food for the spirit, his mother had called those lessons. They’d shaped Marcus into the man he was now. 

The evening had always closed with a kiss, before various members of the household went to their beds, and as Marcus showed Neroon to the door he leaned in for one that was far more involved than any he’d ever given his parents.

Neroon smiled as he pulled back. “Thank you for this day, Marcus. I shall treasure it; it has been a great gift. Your parents were amazing people.”

Marcus smiled, for the first time thinking of his dead with joy outweighing both anger and loss. “They were, yes. Thank you for helping me remember that.”

Neroon bowed. “Tomorrow, we will go through a day in the life of a Star Rider. Since you have been living here during our courtship not much will come as a surprise, but I ask you to share the day with me anyway.”

“I’d be honoured,” Marcus smiled, kissing his fiancé one last time before Neroon left. He was still smiling as he blew out the candles, bowed lightly to the altar, and set about getting ready for bed. Perhaps someday he and Neroon could repeat this day with Fara, to teach her about her human grandparents. That pleasant thought followed him into sleep.

***

Marcus watched out the window of the small flyer as the scenery of Minbar moved past below him. Mostly it was a white blur punctuated by occasional spots of colour, but with the way the sun glittered off it, it was still quite pretty. Today was the middle of winter, according to the Minbari calendar. It happily coincided with the need for Marcus and Neroon to attend a Religious ceremony together, and so the entire family was headed for the temple in Yed’oore, to participate in the day’s celebrations. The priests might believe that the way the northern continent celebrated the old holidays was barbaric, but they couldn’t deny the importance of the day. On the shortest day of the year, when the sun was reborn, everyone who was able went to their local temple and participated in a modified form of the Na’fak Cha, being reborn themselves and washed clean of the cares of the previous year.

As a tradition, Marcus thought it was a good one. It had kept the best of the old, and mingled it with the new very smoothly.

Just across the aisle from him Ardminn and Lennier sat together, robed in white and practically glittering with colourful embroidery. Religious Caste robes for this day were not the staid everyday sorts of things that the temple acolytes could be seen in; they were a visual reminder of the meaning of the day, celebratory and bright with colour against their wintry background. 

Neither of the Minbari looked particularly celebratory. Lennier was still nervous about his Clan’s reaction to Helacann, even though they were welcomed with open arms whenever they came to the temple to complete a ritual. Ardminn hadn’t been home in several decades and had more cause to worry; the Clan Mir had objected strongly to her marriage and to some of them she was no longer worthy to be considered a daughter of the Clan. Only for the sake of one of her children would she be travelling back to her childhood home now. Marcus was gaining an entirely new level of respect for his mother-in-law from this.

“We’re coming up on the temple parking area,” Nerlin called from the pilot’s seat, his son beside him deep in conversation with one of the traffic controllers via headset. They were directed to a spot near the temple doors in recognition of their status. A couple of the Clan Sechs were the first off the small transport, today acting as ceremonial bodyguards. Aalann disembarked next, leaning on Ardiri’s arm mostly for show. Ardiri herself was festively dressed, and for once remarkably clear of flour. Nerlin and Ardminn followed them, then Helacann’s parents, Lennier, and Helacann, leaving Marcus and Neroon to bring up the rear of the procession. The family joined the queue filing into the temple, nodding to acquaintances and pausing for a few words with friends, but the entire thing made Marcus nervous.

“Do people seem strained to you?” he asked Neroon in an undertone as they passed a group of hotly debating smiths of the Worker Caste.

“Yes,” Neroon answered, while giving the outward appearance of calm serenity that befitted his rank. “They are segregated by Caste, had you noticed? Normally on this day family and friends mingle. I have never seen it like this.”

Now that it had been pointed out to him Marcus too noticed the small knots of people who were keeping to their own Castes. The level of tension in the room was getting clearer the farther in they got; he almost didn’t want to continue to the inner temple and partake of the ceremony, but he was here as a guest of the Star Riders and as a representative of the Anla’Shok and he wouldn’t shame his hosts or his teachers that way.

“Stay close,” Neroon murmured. “If there is to be trouble, you are an unfortunately obvious target. There are few aliens present.”

Marcus hadn’t really noticed that, either, as accustomed as he had become to being the only alien anywhere on the northern continent, and he resolved to ask Sech Durhan to run him through some of the advanced surveillance courses again. Obviously he was slipping. 

“Normally there would be ambassadorial groups and tourists scattered amongst the Minbari,” Neroon said softly. “I see only a few lone people, usually with a group of Minbari as you are with us.”

Marcus frowned. “Were aliens warned away?” he asked.

“I do not know,” Neroon answered, obviously troubled. “I can’t imagine any official notice was sent, but there are subtler ways to make people unwelcome, and we are unfortunately masters of those.”

Marcus would have said more, but at that moment they passed through the archway that led from the enclosed courtyard of the outer temple and into the vaulted reaches of the inner temple and conversation became impossible. They followed the rest of the Star Riders party to one of the balcony boxes that overlooked the altar. Marcus couldn’t help but think of Victorian opera houses, given the amount of grandeur and pomp he was surrounded by.

The High Priest and Priestess conducted the ceremony from the large altar at the front of the temple, but Marcus was more interested in watching the gathered Minbari. The ebb and flow of the crowd as different groups came forward for their yearly blessings was a fascinating study in the rigid Clan and Caste structure that held Minbari society together. He could have studied for fifty years and never learned as much as this single morning was teaching him.

Finally the lesser families had all made their way through the temple. The vaulted space echoed with the movements of the comparatively small number still in their balcony boxes, the head families of Minbar’s greatest Clans. Helacann’s family and Lennier had left them some time before, joining Lennier’s family and the rest of the monastic religious sub-Clans. 

“Come,” Aalann directed, leading them down to the altar. “The Warriors go first.” She leaned on Ardiri’s arm, the younger woman for this one day of the year more Warrior than Worker. 

Marcus heard the murmurs as they crossed the temple floor with the other Warrior Clans, and held his head high to hide his misgivings. “I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered to Neroon.

“Yes, you should,” Neroon whispered back. 

“No,” Marcus disagreed. “This is an important ritual for your people, and I am neither Minbari, nor noble, nor Warrior.”

“You are all those things, and my people must begin to accept possibilities outside their narrow view of the world,” Neroon countered. “You once told my mother you wished to live. Nothing more; no grand revolutions or stirring speeches, just a life spent at my side. Well, this is part of it; to walk by my side, making no speeches and declaring no revolution. To show by example that you are worthy of this position, and to open their eyes to possibility.”

Marcus scowled, but remained silent as they reached the altar just behind the Moon Shields. Only their matriarch had come with her honour guard, and she was finished quickly. The priests turned their attention to the Star Riders party, and Marcus had the feeling that if they’d been permitted it during the ceremony, they would have looked stunned.

“Do you come to be reborn in the light of the reborn sun, to be cleansed of the past year so that the new one may begin afresh?” one of the priests asked.

“We do,” they answered.

“Valen asked, ‘will you follow me into fire?’ and the nine said yes.”

“We also say yes,” Aalann answered. 

“Then taste of the berries, and be made new,” the priests commanded, offering the bowl first to the matriarch and then to her family. Their faces became even more expressionless when they served Ardminn, but she ignored them as imperiously as a daughter of the Clan Mir had ever ignored anyone, and they moved on quickly.

They paused again when they reached Marcus. “Why are you here?” one asked, and Marcus heard the muttering about the temple cease abruptly as every ear strained for his response.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” he asked.

“This is not your celebration,” the priest told him.

“It is a celebration of new beginnings,” Marcus countered. “Is it not open to all who seek such? Are all the wonders of the universe only meant for those who crafted them? How poor our knowledge of things beyond our selves would be, if that were so.”

The priest stared at him, but Marcus thought that the resumed muttering sounded cautiously approving.

“Well said, Anla’Shok,” the High Priestess came down from behind the altar and took the bowl from the priest holding it. “It should not surprise us to see one of another race seeking wonders on our world, as we seek them on a dozen others. Eat of the berry, and experience part of that wonder.”

“Thank you.” Marcus bowed politely and took one of the little red berries, holding Neroon’s gaze as he did so. Perhaps it was indiscreet of him, but he knew the alternate use for the Na’fak Cha, and the crowd behind them could not see where his gaze locked. Neroon’s eyes were a shade darker than normal as he watched the bright red fruit disappear between human lips, but he kept his composure. Barely. Marcus was going to pay for that tease when he least expected it.

The priests moved on, and Aalann led the Star Riders out of the temple. From the steps in front of the courtyard, looking out, Marcus could see the towering spires of Yed’oore glittering, a thousand colourful rainbows brightening the air. A thin column of smoke arose from one district, and Marcus smiled to think of outdoor cooking for a celebration, before his eye was drawn back. The Minbari did not cook outside on special occasions. There was a rigid fire ban in place in the cities to keep air pollution down. And that smoke was the wrong colour and shape to be a cooking fire.

“Neroon,” he said, carefully, gesturing to the thickening column that had caught his eye. “Is there a fire component to this day that I don’t know about?”

Neroon blinked, then peered across the distance. “No,” he said slowly, before turning to Aalann. “Aunt, something has happened in the city.”

Aalann looked, swore, and led her family as swiftly as she could to their flyer. Helacann and Lennier joined them on the way, seeing their haste from wherever they had been standing. Lennier paled when he saw the direction the smoke came from.

“That’s one of the Tha’Domo monasteries!” he said, increasing his speed.

Later that night, when Marcus had washed the smell of soot and chemicals off his hands, he had a moment to reflect that a simple fire would have been preferable to what they had actually encountered once they’d reached the rescue crews to offer their assistance. Civil war had come to Minbar, hidden in shadows and bombs that could not officially be traced, but could belong to only one Caste. Valen’s Ban – and Valen’s Peace – were irrevocably shattered.

***

The next evening Marcus sat curled into his couch, holding Fara close to his side as she happily poked through a picture book the Babylon 5 Command Staff had sent. He wasn’t quite sure who’d told them about he and Neroon adopting the girl, but he was glad she was receiving some frivolous things that he recognized as well as Minbari books and toys.

Neroon sat nearby, working on a dispatch to the Ingata at Marcus’ desk. The entire estate was in an uproar; the tensions from the southern continent hadn’t really reached up here, and now the news was full of attacks and bombings in the cities and no one knew quite how to react. Families were sticking close together, and those Star Riders not of the Warrior Caste were walking lightly with a glint of fear in their eyes that had never been present before. Their presence put the Clan at risk; so far only the temples and places like the Anla’Shok facilities had been targeted, but no one knew how long that would last.

“Shakiri has ordered the warships to return to Minbar,” Neroon commented. “He’s gone up to join them in orbit around the planet.”

Marcus snorted. “Are they there to keep the peace? Or there to win the war?” His private opinion of Shakiri was about the same as his opinion of President Clark; he didn’t think the man would stop at anything to get the power he craved. 

“I wish I could be sure,” Neroon said, finishing his communiqué and shutting down the terminal he was working at. “He is being very careful in the wording of his orders; it is possible to believe that he is simply using the ships to intimidate those who are fighting. But I doubt it. He may not have ordered the first shot fired in this war, but he will take the opportunity it gives him to crush the Religious Caste and raise the Warriors to governance of Minbar. There is little we can do to stop him.”

“No,” Marcus agreed, holding his daughter slightly closer. “I wish there was.”

Neroon sighed. “I know. I swore oaths to my people, and now whichever way I turn I will break them. It is not a good situation.”

Marcus shook his head in agreement and turned his attention back to his daughter. It seemed it was his destiny to have wherever he called home destroyed in the flames of war.

“What’s the next ritual?” he asked, giving up the conversation for now. It wouldn’t change anything. No matter what they said, they would still be trapped on the estate in Ilriam, unable to change the fate of the southern cities without destroying themselves and everything they – and those they cared for – had worked for.

“The exchange of futures,” Neroon answered quietly. “We tell each other our hopes and plans. What we hope to be in life, and where, and why. And then we make plans together, for a combined future.”

Marcus smiled. “An easy task. I wish to be here.”

“Forever?” Neroon asked. “Marcus, think about this. Aren’t there things that you want to do?”

Marcus gazed off into the distance for a moment. “Yes,” he admitted finally, “There are. I wish to visit earth again, to lay my parent’s rings to rest with their families. I wish to read certain books, see certain sights. But I’ve never made a grand plan for my life, Neroon. I’m quite content to live here. You’ve given me a family again; it’s not something I want to lose. Perhaps eventually I’ll retire from the Rangers; they no longer need quite so many since the Shadows have gone. Maybe I’ll teach the Clan children, or write tactical manuals. But that’s all.”

Neroon smiled. “You have such simple desires, for a man who burns as bright in the universe as any star I have seen.”

Marcus blushed. “What do you want, then?” he asked. “The Ingata?”

“I don’t deny that I would miss serving as an active Alyt,” Neroon answered, “But no. I have served in three wars now, Marcus. I am tired of war. I would like to see earth. I would like to meet more aliens, now that I understand you are not all inferior. I would like to never again wield the kind of responsibility that can destroy my people with barely a thought, as I did when I stepped into the role of Satai. A quiet life would be best. I have done enough.”

Marcus smiled. “An easy ritual, then. Shall we plan to have a quiet life here, watching the universe pass us by, teaching the youngsters how we fought in the good old days?”

Neroon chuckled, as much at the idea of the two of them as grumpy old men as anything. “Let’s,” he said, even though he knew it wasn’t possible. They both knew that they were too restless for that life. There was still too much of the universe to see and experience. Too many people to save, too many battles to fight against all odds. It gave them purpose, made them feel alive and needed and like they were doing something to make life better, somewhere. 

But just for this one night, with the horrors of burning bodies fresh in their memories, it was nice to dream of a universe where Warriors in the service of life could lay down their arms and simply live.

***

Now that they’d passed the midpoint of the courtship, Marcus observed, the rituals they were going through were both more private and more personal. They were left to themselves more and more often, instead of snatching moments between family meetings and Marcus’ duties at the training facility in Tuzan’oore and Neroon’s duties as an Alyt of the Warrior Caste and trying to make sure their daughter didn’t feel neglected. Marcus wasn’t sure they’d have managed that last one, if it wasn’t for the way the Minbari had of putting all the children of the Clan together and raising them as one, so they functionally had an entire Clan full of parents. He wasn’t sure that a human child could have dealt with the amount of time they spent apart from her, even though they gave her every scrap of attention they could.

It didn’t help that many of the rituals could not be conducted with children around. They called for privacy between the couple, something that most Minbari – if not all – had never had a problem with. But most Minbari had children after they were married, instead of adopting them randomly almost before their courtship started. In this, as in so much else, they were making it up as they went along.

Tonight, dinner was set in Neroon’s rooms, a private meal for two. Ardiri had helped him cook it, all the while telling Marcus and Fara stories of a young Neroon and what a disaster he’d been in the kitchen, before taking her niece off to have a ‘girl’s night in’. Whatever that was. Marcus was almost positive he didn’t want to know. There were some wonders of the universe, he reflected, that it was best to leave alone.

The meal was light and pleasant, both of them still treading carefully around the subject of the ongoing fighting in the south and their duties to their respective organizations. They did not have a great deal of time together before they would be recalled to active duty, to help subdue the atrocities. Marcus had seen pictures on the news of the ancient buildings in Yed’oore chipped and cracked, their refractive surfaces pockmarked with the impact of weapons fire that hadn’t been heard in the city streets in a thousand years. 

Finally Neroon put down his glass, and Marcus knew the moment he’d been dreading had come. It was too much to hope for that he’d been the only one to receive Delenn’s message asking for help.

“How long?” Marcus asked, before Neroon could begin whatever he’d been about to say.

Neroon did him the courtesy not pretending he didn’t understand. “Two valsta. The Ingata is bringing Delenn to Minbar, then she and I will sit down together to try and find a way out of this for all our people.”

Marcus nodded. “All right. But please, don’t do anything foolish in your pursuit of peace.” He was still haunted some nights by the life he’d seen pass in the Trial of Shadows, a life that had included Neroon perishing in the ancient Starfire Wheel. Marcus didn’t think he could bear it if that came true.

“I promise,” Neroon vowed. “You will have duties to the Anla’Shok while she is here. The thirty-third ritual is a valsta of complete separation, to prove that although we may be better together, we can survive and function apart. If we can get to that point before Delenn arrives, we may do our duty and follow our hearts at the same time.”

Marcus nodded, a little relieved that their courtship was still important enough to Neroon that he was considering it as closely as he considered the welfare of Minbar. A part of him was ashamed, for being so relieved. As if his personal happiness mattered in the face of mounting counts of dead and injured and the damage being done to a world that had existed in peace for a thousand years.

“There is something else Delenn said,” Neroon continued after a moment of silence. “I don’t know if she told you or not.”

Marcus sighed. “That your people are not the only ones who are trying to wipe themselves out? That the Earth Government has been attacking its own civilian ships and outposts?”

“You heard, then,” Neroon observed.

“I’ve been getting scattered bits of Susan’s ‘Voice of the Resistance’ broadcasts. They aren’t coming into Minbar very well, especially since Shakiri’s established a rudimentary communications blockade for off-planet transmissions, but I hear enough.” Marcus sighed. “Will the killing ever stop, Neroon? Is anywhere in the universe safe any longer?” 

Neroon moved around the small table to take his ma’fela in his arms, holding tight. “Right here. As long as my arms are around you, know that no harm can come to you.”

Marcus nodded and burrowed closer, pretending that he believed Neroon. It didn’t hurt, did it, to pretend for one night that both their peoples weren’t at war with themselves, that thousand of innocent lives hadn’t already been lost. To pretend, just for a moment, that Neroon and Delenn and he and John Sheridan and all the others could fix the universe with what they did.

***

Neroon’s family seemed to sympathize with their sense of urgency over finishing as much as they could before Delenn arrived and threw everything into more disarray than it was in already. They had been moving slowly, as much as a valsta in between each ritual to accommodate family schedules, but now Aalann rearranged the schedules around them. So it was that only two days after their dinner together, Marcus and Neroon set out with Aalann and Nerlin guiding them to do a complete patrol of the estate. On foot, so that Marcus learned the land and all its quirks. He would one day be one of the Warriors acting in its defence, after all. 

Somehow, the archaic ritual wasn’t as easy an outing as it had been for generations of Minbari before them. It was the first time in a thousand years that a prospective Star Rider had actually had to face the possibility of defending this land, rather than simply honouring the traditions of their ancestors.

That aside, the eight-day trek was pleasant. The temperature had developed a sudden mild spell and risen to somewhere near fifteen below zero, quite a comfortable winter travelling temperature. Using the Minbari versions of cross-country skis, snowshoes, and ice skates they made good time, and the fresh air and activity did them more good than a valsta spent cooped up in the estate worrying over the news ever could have. They took only basic provisions with them, surviving mostly off the land, and despite the worry Marcus had rarely enjoyed himself more. In the evenings, with their four-man snow cave blocking the wind behind them and a fire warming them from the front, Aalann would tell them all some of the ancient stories of the Clan. It didn’t matter that Nerlin and Neroon had both heard them many times before; to Marcus they were completely new, and the others experienced their wonder through his eyes.

All four of them were sorry to see the gates to the housing complex looming before them on the morning of the ninth day. Neroon, watching as Marcus visibly settled himself and seemed to shrink under the weight of responsibility returning to his shoulders, vowed that someday they’d take such a trip and not be forced to come back to face a war.

***

Two days later they sat facing each other on the floor of one of the smaller private training rooms. Delenn had arrived in secret the night before, to consult with Neroon before both of them left for Yed’oore to try to talk some sense into their people. For now she waited in the hall with Neroon’s family and Lennier. 

“Meditation may not be possible right now,” Marcus informed his fiancé as Neroon began directing them through the breathing exercises that would induce a deep trance, much deeper than the meditation they’d shared previously. This one was intended to build on the connection they’d established in the mid-level meditation, cementing it so that they’d always have an awareness of the general health and happiness of the other, even when not actually together. 

“It will if you try,” Neroon countered.

Marcus snorted. “I’m not sure I can do this,” he argued again. “I’m too restless.”

“After this we’ll spar again, and you can beat me to a pulp,” Neroon offered. “But for now, please concentrate. We have to do this in a certain order, and if we don’t complete the required meditation now, it could be weeks before we can try again.”

Marcus sighed, and settled, using tricks learned in his EFI days when waiting was as much a part of his duties as action was. Neroon took his hands, and they dropped further and further into the meditative trance the Minbari practiced, further than Marcus had ever gone by himself. It wasn’t quite the joyous sharing the last one had been, but the connection it created was far more profound.

Marcus came up out of their shared meditation and met Neroon’s eyes, hoping the profound awe he felt at being able to share such a thing with his fiancé was clear. He didn’t have the first clue how to express it in words.

Neroon solved that problem for him by leaning in for a soft, lingering kiss before standing to let their families into the room. They took their places to begin sparring, and Aalann called the beginning of the fight.

It was not playful or lustful as their last two bouts had been, although it was passionate. They ran each other around the training ring, attacking and defending in turn. Marcus wasn’t sure whether desperation or love was the clearer emotion when he met Neroon’s eyes A valsta of separation wouldn’t have meant much a few months ago, but now he was almost terrified to let Neroon out of his sight, afraid he’d never see him alive again if he did. It was a useless fear in a Warrior, but that didn’t prevent him from feeling it like a punch to the gut.

The bout ended in a draw again, both their denn’boks on the floor where they’d managed to disarm each other, Marcus’ hand halted a bare centimetre above the same cluster of nerves he’d hit in the ritual of pain. Neroon’s hand was clasped lightly around his throat, a threat that changed to a caress as Aalann called the match a draw. Their families left the room politely, Delenn giving Marcus a look of apology as she left.

When they were alone, Neroon wrapped his arms around Marcus tightly, pulling the human close to him and burying his face in long, dark hair.

“I’m sorry,” Neroon whispered.

Marcus shook his head, but clung just as tightly as Neroon. “Don’t apologize for doing your duty. Even if they kill you for it, be proud that you are the sort of man who will stand up to put an end to the fighting.” He kissed Neroon lightly. “And know that I’m proud of you for it.”

Neroon kissed him back. “I have to go. Delenn is waiting for me, and the Marka’ri Minsa meets in less than two days.”

Marcus nodded, giving Neroon a last swift kiss before letting go. “Come back to me safely,” he begged, heart in his eyes. 

Neroon bowed to him, then brushed feather-light fingers across his cheek before turning and striding out of the room. Marcus waited until he was sure the other man had gone, then waited a moment longer before sitting abruptly on the floor of the training ring. He could not believe it was happening again, those he loved going into danger. He could do nothing to help Neroon; he was due at the Ranger facility in only a few hours, to aid with keeping the peace in Tuzan’oore. 

After a few moments spent in somewhat numb contemplation of recent events, Marcus shook himself out of it and stood. That was quite enough of that. War had come to take what he loved again, but this time he wouldn’t let it. War had taken everything else; Marcus would fight like the devil himself to keep it from taking Neroon, or Minbar. There was nothing else to be said about the matter.

Grimly purposeful, he strode through the estate to his rooms, seasoned Warriors bowing their respects to him as he passed. They knew the look of a man about to enter a hopeless fight simply because there was nothing else his honour could do; they respected such a man immensely.

Within the hour both Marcus and Neroon had departed the estate, and the few family members left behind to watch the news transmissions could only pray that they made a difference.

***

The valsta passed slowly for Marcus. The Ranger facility was under a virtual lockdown, the alien Rangers staying as far out of sight as possible to keep hostilities down. Any Ranger who ventured outside the gates was pelted with projectiles of varying types, many of them lethal. Like so many of the attacks, the attackers remained hidden. As a tactic, Marcus approved its effectiveness. You couldn’t fight what you couldn’t identify, and they were creating fear throughout the city. No one knew whom to blame, which Caste had started the violence, which Caste had continued it. Chaos added to confusion was the order of the day, and Marcus did what he could from behind the scenes to lessen it. 

He hoped the war was fought more openly in the other cities. Tuzan’oore received no news of the rest of the planet; the city’s communication towers had fallen in the first attack and repairs had so far been ineffectual. There was no way to know how the rest of Minbar fared; for all the Rangers knew, the war could have been over days ago. 

Against the advice – although with the blessings – of Sech Durhan, Marcus was keeping busy, going out at night to give aid to the makeshift hospitals and soup kitchens that had sprung up in odd corners. He kept his hood well up when he was outside, and those inside the cobbled-together shelters would never tell that a human Anla’Shok was risking his life to give them a warm meal and a clean bandage. 

Marcus would never know, but on the anniversary of the end of the civil war, for as long as they lived, all those he helped would light a candle in the temple in memory of a human who cared more for Minbari strangers than he did his own safety. It would be from them that the movement to befriend the humans coming to live on Minbar began, and in time that movement would grow strong enough to bring down the government’s isolationist policies. But all that is decades, even lifetimes away yet. 

On the seventh evening, when Marcus finally remembered that a Minbari valsta was longer than an earth week, the frustration and the lack of concrete information about what was going on in the rest of the planet finally drove him to seek a slightly more violent outlet for his tension. He called up all of his EFI training, darker and more deadly even than the Ranger practices, and tracked an ambusher to his lair. He wasn’t entirely surprised by the Wind Swords insignia he found on the unconscious (Marcus wasn’t stupid enough to leave him dead, and anyway, he’d kept his face hidden) Warrior’s body. He only regretted that he had no official business there, and couldn’t bring the insignia to anyone as proof. He would have to watch, and wait.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to do either for very long, and his proof didn’t end up mattering in the slightest.

***

Neroon’s valsta was both more and less eventful than his ma’fela’s. He was well out of the concentrated fighting and communication blackouts that had hit Tuzan’oore and sections of Yed’oore. He and Delenn, in fact, had adjoining rooms in one of the most intact portions of the capital, near the chambers of the Marka’ri Minsa. So far, no one had been stupid enough to attack there.

“What are we going to do?” Delenn asked. “This can’t continue. It has gone beyond ground warfare, Neroon. Your Caste is openly bombarding our cities from your warships, targeting the temples. We have no way of proving which side started the fighting, to ask them to end it.”

Neroon snorted. “As if the Religious Caste would begin a war.” Both of them paused, remembering that the Religious Caste had, on at least one memorable occasion in the recent past, cast the deciding vote on such a matter. “ Anyway, whichever side started the war hardly matters now,” Neroon finished, slouching a little with exhaustion. “It only matters who ends it.”

“Can we not appeal again to Shakiri, have him order the Warriors to stand down, negotiate for peace?” Delenn wondered.

“You do not negotiate for peace with Warriors like Shakiri. You die fighting, or you surrender,” Neroon countered, disturbed by his meeting with the Shai Alyt the day before. While he agreed with many things the man had said about the nature of life and death, the gleam in his eyes when he spoke of a Warrior-ruled Minbar bothered Neroon greatly. He hoped they had planned correctly when they had decided to let everyone involved assume that he had betrayed Delenn’s confidence to his superior.

“Then what can we do?” Delenn asked.

“Hope that he can yet be reasoned with in council,” Neroon sighed. He didn’t hold out much hope. “Marcus warned me, but I did not listen. I could not believe the Warrior Council had chosen ill, that their wisdom had failed them. But Shakiri is no longer fit to be Shai Alyt. He is not protecting our people, he is warmongering. He is power hungry as well, seeking to fill the vacuum left behind by the Del’Saezha with whoever is strong enough to seize power. He would return us to the ancient Clan wars, if he could.”

“You think it is not just that the Warriors are restless, and he is allowing them too much freedom?” Delenn asked. “You think that Shakiri himself is actually ordering the destruction?”

“I no longer know what to think,” Neroon admitted. “I believed in him, Delenn. I believed that he would act for the good of Minbar. I do not like betraying him in this manner, however wrong he is.”

“And yet even now, with Sharlin warships firing upon our own world, I know no other Warrior who would skirt the authority of the Shai Alyt,” Delenn commented, sipping her ever-present tea. “Thank you for this, Neroon.”

Neroon shook his head. “Don’t thank me. I can do nothing more than tell you my observations; I dare not give any indication that I am in more than casual contact with you as go-betweens for our Castes. Not after appearing to turn against the aid I offered you and remain by Shakiri’s side. But his recent orders are a stain on the honour of my Caste, and if it comes down to it I care more for Minbar than my own honour anyway.”

Delenn nodded. “This is what we will say, then,” she said, and proceeded to outline a plan of attack for the meeting that crept ever closer. Neroon could almost admire how twisted her plan was, giving him the firm appearance of loyalty to his Caste leader while keeping him in reserve as a secret weapon of her own side.

The chambers of the Marka’ri Minsa were in a very old building, tiers of seats set into massive domed walls, one section separated from the rest by large sections of blank wall. Once, this was to prevent those who sat in the privileged section from being attacked, for these were the governing officials of Minbar: Dr’aals and Priests and Priestesses and members of the Warrior Council. Compared to those who filled the galleries, they were a small number. On the floor of the chamber in the center was a tall stone pillar, thick enough at the top for a man to take twenty good paces in any direction and not teeter off the edge. Few ever tested this; the platform was not bound by any guardrails, and the fall was high enough to be lethal. In the ancient past the platform had been reached by a stair that curved around the pillar; in these more advanced days it was more usually reached by an elevator installed in the middle of it, an elevator that would slide back down into the rock to leave a clear and solid platform at the top when it was not in use.

Neroon and Delenn took the stairs.

It was a long climb, made longer by Neroon’s unease about what was to come. He could see Aalann seated with the Council, in her proper position as Elder and matriarch of the second Clan. She was icily ignoring Shakiri, seated only a few chairs from her, robed in the splendid armour of the Shai Alyt. Branmer, Neroon reflected, had never needed that armour to remind his Warriors of his strength. Shakiri’s eyes had narrowed when Neroon entered the room behind Delenn, and Neroon desperately hoped he believed the lies Neroon had spun. They hadn’t all been lies, actually; all he’d really said was that he would speak to Delenn, and attempt to work out a solution that would end the killing and give power over to his Caste.

One of the Worker Caste Dr’aals stood and thumped a staff into the stone at his feet, silencing the muttering crowd just as Delenn and Neroon reached the top of the platform and stood, two small figures against the immensity of Minbar.

“We are called today to answer a joint plea from Delenn of Clan Mir and Neroon of the Star Riders Clan that the civil war currently engulfing our planet cease. While it seems to my Caste that this is both obvious and necessary, since it is the Religious and Warrior Castes that are actually involved in the fighting arguments must be heard from all sides. Ambassador Delenn, you have the floor.” He sat back down, and Delenn moved to the speaker’s circle etched onto the platform, from which point her voice would be projected around the chamber.

“I have been on Babylon 5, and so have not lived through all of the horrors occurring in our cities,” she began, “But I have also served in the front lines of two wars, and I know well the things they bring. Terror. Pain. Death, not just of the body but of the soul, which is sometimes much worse. These things cannot continue. Valen’s Ban was instituted to stop us from killing each other over petty squabbles, so that we might unite and become something greater than we were. Did we learn so little, that a thousand years of peace can be dissolved so quickly?”

“The laws of Valen were set in place while the Sher’shok Dum threatened us!” Someone shouted. “Now they are gone, perhaps it is time for new laws!” 

Shouts of agreement greeted the unknown speaker, and Neroon stepped forward to Delenn’s side.

“Perhaps it is,” Neroon interjected, stepping onto the circle. “But are laws born in the flames of civil war what we want for Minbar?”

That satisfied some of them, but others were still restless.. 

“How do we know what we want?” Another voice called. Neroon thought it was a member of the Worker Caste. “We’ve been torn one way or another for centuries, first between your two Castes, then united under Valen’s laws, then torn asunder again by war and a return of ancient foes and the dissolution of all Valen built. How can we know? Perhaps it is best, that one Caste proves its supremacy!”

“Through bloodshed?” Delenn argued. “Is strength of weapons more important now than strength of wisdom?”

“In the absence of the united authority of the Del’Saezha, either strength of arms or strength of mind must prove itself supreme,” someone yelled. “So it was, in the ancient days.” 

“Do you need the Grey Council to think for you?” Delenn demanded, colour rising in her cheeks as she grew more passionate in the defence of peace. “Did you ask their permission to eat, or bathe? Are we children, to fall to squabbling as soon as our parents are no longer there to oversee our actions? We have the chance, here and now, to choose to be something greater and nobler and better than we have ever been before!”

“And whose fault is that?” Shakiri called, ignoring her last statement entirely. “All know who took the words of prophecy into her own hands and shattered the Del’Saezha. If it were not for your actions, none of this would ever have happened! I do not recognize your right to address this council; you are not one of our people any longer, Delenn!”

Roars of agreement and objection drowned out the pounding of staffs calling for order for a full ten minutes, during which time Neroon saw the flinch deep in Delenn’s eyes and knew Shakiri had dealt a harsh blow to the priestess, and ripped away any credibility she had with their people outside the Religious Caste. To that Caste, Shakiri’s words would push her dangerously close to the status of martyr. It was now up to him.

“Silence!” he shouted, voice amplified from the petitioner’s platform. Not that he needed it; he was using the tone he employed to control a ship full of rowdy Warriors drunk on victory. Slowly and grudgingly, the crowd settled.

“Whatever happened to the Del’Saezha,” Neroon spoke clearly into the ensuing quiet, “They are gone. We must find a way to govern ourselves and move forward without their guidance. Delenn did break the council, but we were all implicated in its downfall, all of us who refused to heed the call of our own prophecies and Valen’s warnings. However, all that is in the past. It is time to move forward, to the future of Minbar. One Caste must triumph, and it is becoming more clear by the day that this war must end soon, or there will be nothing of Minbar left for the victorious Caste to rule.”

“Are you not a Warrior?” some voice called out, and Neroon suspected a Wind Sword plant. “Do you not revel in the chance to exercise your skills?”

“Against those I swore to defend?” Neroon demanded scornfully. “Against bakers, and butchers, and candle makers? Against monks, and acolytes, and children?” he snorted in derision. “That is no display of skill, and any Warrior who believes it is should be called to face the Trial of Shadow once again, because they are not worthy to hold the title. There is enough of evil and pain in the universe outside of Minbar; it need not fester here, too.” Shakiri looked less than impressed with that claim, and Neroon reined his emotions in. It wouldn’t do to make the Shai Alyt suspicious.

“You say that, but you have been in secret meetings with the Anla’Shok and the Religious Caste,” Shakiri accused, eyes glinting in a way Neroon did not like. “Even though you claim to have brought what they told you to me. Are you truly a Warrior, Neroon? Or are you playing both sides, seeking to come out powerful no matter who wins?”

Neroon glared at the Shai Alyt, swearing loudly inside his own mind. He was trapped. If he revealed his reasons for keeping Marcus and Lennier at his estate, everything he loved would be torn from him. Nothing but that revelation would prove his innocence to those of the other Castes who watched. Any attempt to turn the accusation back upon Shakiri would end in an accusation of outright treason against his Clan; they would be stripped of much of their power and put in great danger. He had a daughter barely seven cycles old. A sister who knew more about wielding a frying pan than a denn’bok – although, to be fair, she could be quite deadly with a pan. A mother who would fold her hands in prayer even as they cut her down. A human ma’fela who was more vulnerable than all the others put together, because no other of the Warrior Caste would hesitate to kill a human. None of them ever had, in the war. Only the Anla’Shok and the half-Minbari woman standing at his side had ever showed that scrap of mercy. Shakiri had outsmarted him this time.

“If our people are so suspicious of each other that you are even accusing a high-ranking member of your own Caste of treason,” Delenn bit out when the room had calmed again, seeing that Neroon could say nothing, “If we are so intent on returning to the ancient ways of Clan hatred and Caste mistrust, then so be it. Let us return to the ancient ways, when all was decided by a higher judge. I, Delenn of the Religious Caste, will stand in the Starfire Wheel at the Temple of Vareni at dawn, four days from now, to allow time for word to be sent to all who care to watch. I will stand there before all of Minbar. If any of the Warrior Caste has the courage to meet me there, we shall see which of our Castes has most right to rule Minbar by strength.

“Oh yes,” she finished, staring around at the pale and shocked crowd filling the chamber. “We shall see.” With that she whirled, hair and robes flying, and stalked down the stairs and out of the room. Her hybrid form was slight by Minbari standards, but at that moment, as Neroon followed her out, he thought again that she was stronger than any of them.

Four days later, as he stood beside her behind the doors to the chamber of the Starfire Wheel high in the mountains he called home, he gave every appearance of having second thoughts about their plan.

“Delenn, are you certain of this?” he asked, for the umpteenth time.

“Yes,” she sighed. “It is the only way. Our people must regain their sanity, Neroon, and they cannot do that without leadership. We must reform the Del’Saezha. The only way to grant anyone the authority to re-instate the Grey Council is to prove one Caste’s dominance, by way of the Wheel. And the only people I trust to carry out any part of this are your family and Lennier. One of the two of us must perish in that room, for our people to survive.”

Neroon shook his head. “I cannot, Delenn,” he said after a long moment of silence. “I’m sorry.”

She glared at him. “Are you so little changed from the man who threw a denn’bok at my feet covered in Marcus’ blood, because he could not give up power? Is what Shakiri accused you of true, that you betray me thus? Was I wrong to trust that you would fight for the good of Minbar, rather than work to see your own Caste emerge superior?”

Neroon shook his head again. “I am too much changed from that man, rather than too little,” he countered. “I have a daughter, Delenn, and soon I will have a husband. I cannot leave them. If it were only myself, I would die for this cause willingly, but I cannot -”

Delenn met his eyes, hers equally anguished. “You think I do not know what my death will do to John?” she asked. “I am to marry him, Neroon! But I cannot place myself above the welfare of all Minbar!”

“Nor can I!” Neroon yelled back, reminded of arguments about philosophy screamed across a school classroom some decades before. He was thankful for those arguments; they helped her believe the worst of him now. “But I can and will place Marcus and Fara there!”

Delenn deflated abruptly. “As you wish,” she murmured harshly, as a gong began striking in the room beyond. The doors to their waiting area opened, and she stepped out, looking back at him in sorrow. “Tell John I love him,” she asked, before moving into the room to face Shakiri, who had come after all.

Neroon followed a few paces later, moving around the room to stand beside Shakiri. The Shai Alyt gave him a suspicious look.

“I was attempting to convince her one last time that the complete surrender of her Caste would be the best thing,” Neroon lied smoothly. “She did not agree.”

Shakiri still looked suspicious, but he nodded, turning his attention to Delenn.

Neroon listened, torn between the calls of Caste, Clan, duty, honour, family, and conscience, as Delenn gave the surrender of the Religious Caste to bring the fighting to a halt before railing at Shakiri for sending Warriors out to die when he himself had remained safely in space. She cursed him as all kinds of coward as she stepped into the Wheel, standing tall under the strange blue light. 

Shakiri argued with her, sounding more and more unfit for the position he held as time went on. Neroon, looking up at the faces of the Warriors and Priests who ringed the galleries about the temple, knew that they saw it too. There was disapproval and dawning realization on many faces. Perhaps, just perhaps, it would be enough.

Finally, Neroon knew he had to act. Shakiri would never enter the circle of his own volition. 

“Are you afraid of death, Shakiri?” Neroon asked, striding over to where the Shai Alyt paced in anger. “You told me that for a Warrior death is only one of two possible outcomes, neither better nor worse than the other. Are we not all born of the universe, and reborn in turn? Why do you not step into the circle?”

Shakiri snarled at him.

“Our entire world is watching,” Neroon reminded him quietly. If the Shai Alyt did not move soon, then Delenn really would perish in the Wheel. Neroon had shot all of her plans to hell, as Marcus would say, only moments before. He had gambled on the cowardice of his Shai Alyt to act on a half-conscious hunch, and if he were wrong, more than a single woman would die today. The hopes of a better future for their race would go with her.

Finally, finally Shakiri growled and threw himself into the circle of fire, immediately crumpling under the weight that Delenn bore standing upright and proud. Neroon could see them speaking, but could hear nothing over the crackling of the flames until Delenn’s final shout sent Shakiri tumbling out of the circle. His aids moved to extinguish his cloak, but Neroon could see the contempt in their eyes. Whatever else happened this day, Shakiri would no longer be counted among the Warrior Caste.

Neroon waited, and waited, but Delenn did not move. She had sworn she would leave the circle! Did the idiot woman mean to die simply to prove her point? Minbar had no need for martyrs! Besides, neither Lennier – safe in the Star Riders estate against his will – nor Marcus would ever forgive him. He growled, and threw himself into the circle with her.

The heat was nearly unbearable, and the pressure was astonishing. Neroon could almost believe that he stood at the center of a star, with the weight of all its mass pressing down on him.

“What are you doing?” Delenn screamed, now in true pain and beginning to crumple against the weight.

“Proving a point,” Neroon answered harshly, turning to face the watching Minbari. “It ends here!” he shouted, hoping his words would be picked up and transmitted over ancient links to every still-operable communications center on Minbar. “Warrior and Religious, united together for the good of our people! Our disagreements end here! So say I, son of a Religious mother and a Warrior father! So says Delenn of Mir, Minbari and alien in one! We are all born of the universe, and we must live united as one race! We are all Minbari, regardless of Caste!”

The Wheel opened further and Neroon hissed in pain, bending double and catching Delenn as she fell. He wanted to lift her out of the circle, but there was no one to take hold of her, and he had no strength left. He bowed his head; he’d hoped his gamble would pay off and inspire someone, anyone, to move. To interfere. To not just stand there, and wait for guidance. Valen had done them no favours with the Grey Council, he thought haltingly as the pressure increased another notch past unbearable. Even those who possessed the genetic ability to lead had never developed it past a certain point, thanks to them. 

In Valen’s name, he hoped Marcus would forgive him this miscalculation.

The Wheel blasted open to its fullest extent and a beam of light more intense and blinding than any up until that point shot down, enveloping him and Delenn. The last thing he saw before his eyes shut and he gave in to the darkness flowing over his mind was a humanoid being of pure light. He might have called it a Vorlon, but for the bonecrest.

If Marcus had been there, he would have recognized ancient robes and a glowing Moon Shields crest, and known that despite the departure of the First Ones there were still wonders in the universe that none of them would ever understand.

***


	5. Part 4

When Marcus returned from helping to clear some of the rubble from the streets a few days later, Sech Turval met him at the door. They’d received a news bulletin through slowly-clearing communications networks two days before, detailing first the true nature of the fighting – Religious Caste against Warrior, for control of the power vacuum left by the absence of the Grey Council – and giving a brief account of the meeting of the Marka’ri Minsa that had dismissed a plea from Delenn to step in and end the conflict. The bulletin had said that a further meeting was scheduled for that same day at the Temple of Vareni, but at that point the communications tower had shorted out again.

Marcus, who remembered only too well the alternate future he’d seen in the Hall of Shadow, had lived every moment since with a gut-wrenching fear that he was about to lose Neroon. When the connection they had forged between them, thin enough because of their distance from each other that all he could tell from it was that Neroon lived, had unexpectedly faded even farther the previous evening, Marcus had panicked. The Sechs had given him clean-up duty today as much to keep him busy and away from weapons as anything. They feared what he’d do to himself, if Neroon was dead, and Marcus didn’t know if he could honestly swear to them he’d be in no danger. 

“There is a call for you,” Turval said quietly. “You may take it in the communications room; there is no one else there. The tower has been completely repaired; we have now received all of the news to date. It appears that the fighting in Tuzan’oore was quite unique in how clandestine it was; the rest of the planet seems much better informed than we are. I wish that tower hadn’t been attacked first.” He walked off, mumbling to himself, as Marcus sprinted down the hallway as fast as he could.

He hoped his disappointment – and shock – didn’t show too clearly when he was met by Delenn’s badly-burned face.

“Entil’zha,” he said politely, bowing low.

“Marcus,” she smiled slightly, nodding back. She looked to be in pain. “I heard about the lack of communication getting in to Tuzan’oore, and thought you had best hear this from a friend before you saw the official videos.”

Marcus paled, and clutched the back of a chair as he sank into it. “No. Please no,” he whispered.

“Marcus!” Delenn snapped, regaining his attention. “I do not have much time. Neroon and I met Shakiri at the Starfire Wheel yesterday. Shakiri, as we suspected he would, dove out of the Wheel. He has been stripped of his rank and exiled by his Caste. However, Neroon would not leave me to die for our people. He entered the Wheel to stand beside me at the last, and when it opened fully, he shielded me from the worst of it.”

Marcus gulped, sure his eyes were telegraphing his devastation. He couldn’t find his voice.

“I am told that when the Wheel opened fully with both of us inside, it triggered a recording of a being of great light, who decreed the Starfire Wheel no longer necessary for a united Minbar,” Delenn continued. “It seems impossible. It is evidently the first time in our history that the leaders of both the Religious and the Warrior Caste have remained, not out of a desire to best the other, but out of a true desire to unite our people and bring peace. It is a great day for Minbar.”

Marcus nodded, staring at the screen numbly. Neroon had shielded her, and she still looked like an over-done lobster with edges of char. He had lost Neroon after all.

“It seems that the Starfire Wheel was intended not as a method of determining leadership, but as a test of a leader’s heart. Now that it has served its purpose and ensured the future of Minbar, it will not function again. In a way, I am glad of that. It is a terrible power, a terrible temptation, and demands a terrible cost. After it shut, Neroon and I were taken to the Moon Shields estate – they have a well-equipped hospital, and were nearest to the temple. Neroon has not woken up, but his healing trance should be coming to an end soon.”

Marcus barely heard most of the end of her explanation, but the last sentence caught his attention and held it. “Neroon’s… alive?” he gasped. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

Delenn blinked. “Oh Valen, Marcus, I am so sorry. I did not think to assure you of that at first. Yes, Neroon is very much alive, although badly burned and very weak. He will make a full recovery in a few weeks. You will see him when you return to the Star Riders estate; he is being transferred home tomorrow.”

Marcus almost wished that he wasn’t sitting down, so that he could have collapsed in relief. As it was, he slumped into the back of the chair. “Thank God,” he whispered, tears finally falling as they hadn’t been able to when he expected the worst. “Oh, thank God.”

Delenn smiled slightly. “He saved my life, Marcus. Neither of us thought we would live through the Wheel. Do not be too hard on him, when he wakes?”

Marcus shook his head. He was too relieved to be angry. Even when the relief wore off, he suspected he wouldn’t be able to muster a really good rage. He agreed with what they’d done, after all. Peace had to return to Minbar, and this had been the only way left open to them. If Neroon had died he would never have recovered, but he would have been proud that his fiancé had brought peace to his world and ensured that there would be a better future for his people. But Neroon lived, and Marcus didn’t think he’d stop smiling for a month.

“I will be a few more days here,” he said, trying to contain his joy. Neroon lived!

Delenn nodded. “I expect there is still much to do. But you should go as soon as you can get away; he will need your strength, when we go to reform the Grey Council in a week’s time. And honestly, Marcus, I’ve seen you try to construct things out of those – Lego? – that the human Anla’Shok like so much. I would feel much better if the Worker Caste was responsible for repairs.”

The screen went dark, but Marcus couldn’t move. Neroon lived. Against all odds, Neroon lived. In a few more days, after the worst of the damage was cleared up, Marcus would be able to return to his side, having fulfilled the valsta of separation. He didn’t think there’d ever been a valsta of separation quite like it, and he may never let Neroon out of his sight again, but they’d done it. 

Marcus rested his arms on the console, dropped his face into them, and sobbed like a child for the first time in years. Neroon was alive.

***

In the end, the damage to Tuzan’oore was severe enough to keep him in the city for another valsta. By the time he returned to the Star Riders estate he was exhausted, dirty, sick down to his soul, and wanted nothing more than to assure himself that Neroon really was all right. Unfortunately, that last had to wait. He remedied the others as best he could by having a bath, taking an extended nap, and spending some time with Fara and her friends, but as the day wore on he grew more anxious to see his fiancé. 

He was watching along with the rest of the planet when Neroon and Delenn recalled the Grey Council, and agreed heartily with their decision to give a majority voice to the Worker Caste. Both Caste leaders were obviously still in some pain, Neroon leaning heavily on his denn’bok although Delenn walked tall. But their authority was gathered around them like a cloak, and no one watching had any doubt left that these two worked for the good of all Minbari. They left the position of the head of the Council empty; Marcus thought that was a good thing. It would prevent what had happened when Dukhat was killed. The Council would simply have to work things out for themselves, and help each other. It was an elegant solution.

Marcus intended to stay up and wait for Neroon to arrive home. He’d joined the rest of the family in the largest sitting room, but had unfortunately selected a far-too-comfortable chair. When Neroon finally walked through the doors, he was hushed before he could say a word and then led over to see Marcus, chair pulled up before the fire, curled around their daughter. Both were fast asleep. Ardiri was grinning like a demon, holding a small recording device, and Neroon could easily predict photographic blackmail in Marcus’ near future.

Neroon leaned down and kissed his ma’fela gently, not wanting to disturb him. Marcus was a light sleeper, though, even when exhausted.

“Neroon,” he breathed, eyes softening with relief. “Thank God.”

Neroon knelt down to sit next to them on a pile of cushions someone thoughtfully provided for him. “It is good to see you,” he said, catching hold of Marcus’ hand and twining their fingers.

Marcus would have none of that, and gently handed their daughter over to her grandmother before sliding down into Neroon’s lap, clutching him as hard as he could. Neroon winced, half-healed burns and pressure damage to his legs and lower back protesting, but he made no sound. He clutched Marcus back, just as hard.

“Are you injured at all?” Neroon asked, running his hands over the human’s back.

“No,” Marcus assured him. “I’m fine. We were mostly helping with the injured, and then rebuilding after the fighting stopped. But you!” Marcus looked up, and his eyes flashed. “I thought you were dead!”

Neroon held him tighter. “I am sorry,” he offered, knowing the apology was inadequate even as it left his mouth.

Marcus shook his head. “Don’t be. I’ve had a lot of time to get over any anger I felt. Not that much of it lasted past the relief that you lived through that crazy stunt you pulled. I understand your reasons, love. Hell, I’d probably do the same thing myself if our positions were reversed. But I’m man enough to admit that you terrified me.”

Neroon chuckled. “A brave Warrior indeed is he who admits to terror. Enough of this. We are both mostly whole, and we are together again. Are you ready to resume our courtship?” 

Marcus nodded. “As long as I don’t have to let go of you, I’m ready for anything.”

“Give yourselves a day,” Ardminn advised from nearer to the fire. “You have time, now. We’ll meet in the temple tomorrow night. For now, why don’t you go to Marcus’ rooms? I trust you can assure yourselves that you’re both intact without breaching the conditions of your courtship.”

Marcus chuckled dryly, knowing his mother-in-law well enough by then to know that she’d be checking on them later. He took her advice gratefully, though, standing and helping Neroon to his feet. They disappeared down the short hallway from the family sitting room to Marcus’ rooms, not letting go of each other for an instant.

***

“How are you?” Lennier asked Marcus the next evening, as they waited for Neroon’s family in the temple.

“Better for having him with me again,” Marcus admitted. “What is tonight’s ritual? He only told me that it’s another set of vows.”

Lennier chuckled slightly. “They are called the Vows of Vengeance,” he answered. “It is a Warrior Caste ritual that I know little of. I believe you are expected to threaten anyone who means him harm, past, present, and future. You are also supposed to promise to take on his enemies, and to avenge any wrongs done to him as if they were done to you.”

Marcus grinned a decidedly evil grin. “How appropriate,” was the only comment he offered as the Star Riders finally arrived, Neroon and Ardminn stepping up to join him at the altar.

“We come to hear the vows of Marcus Cole and Neroon of the Star Riders. They are shield and guard to each other, and they are promised to remain beside each other. Let the universe also hear, and remember.” She stepped aside.

“Marcus Cole,” Neroon began, “I vow to take on your burdens as if they were my own. I vow to fight your battles as if they were my own. I vow to avenge wrongs done to you, as if they were done to me.”

Marcus smiled. Neroon had chosen the simplest possible form of the vows. Marcus himself was about to improvise. “Neroon of the Star Riders, I vow to take on your burdens and fight your battles as if they were my own. I vow to avenge wrongs done to you. I further vow to take it out of your pig-headed hide if you ever try to get yourself killed when I’m not there to watch your back again, and if you ever succeed in said endeavour, then I’ll hunt down the ones responsible before haunting you in the afterlife,” he swore passionately.

There was stunned silence for a moment, and then Ardiri began snickering. “Well said!” she called, ignoring the quelling looks sent her way by their elders.

Neroon chuckled. “I suppose I deserve that,” he admitted. “We will perhaps not admit to the Council of Elders that you changed the words.”

Marcus chuckled back, taking Neroon’s hands and leaning into his sturdy frame, careful not to rest too much of his weight on still-healing skin. “Perhaps that will be best,” he agreed. 

“Well, that’s done,” Aalann declared, heading for the tunnel door that led back into the estate proper. “It made more sense to come all the way out here in the old days, when there was more pomp. Don’t stay too long, or we’ll be back with the hose.” She hustled the rest of the family out before her, leaving Marcus and Neroon once more wrapped tightly together. Marcus hadn’t yet stopped rejoicing that his fiancé was alive and in his arms again, and judging by Neroon’s tight embrace, neither had he.

***

 

“You’ll enjoy the next few rituals,” Neroon informed Marcus a couple of valsta later. Haynwa had just declared the Alyt completely healed, and given them his blessing to continue with their courting. Marcus had been waiting with more patience than Neroon would have, if the situation had been reversed. The Minbari winter was almost over now, Three-Quarter Day having come and gone relatively unremarked a few days before. The Star Riders had been more concerned with their remaining wounded, the Clan dead who had been caught in the cities, and giving what aid they could to those who needed it. 

“Why?” Marcus asked, walking close by his side as they headed for the private training room in the family wing.

“Because we can combine them,” Neroon smiled. “Three rituals in one day. At this rate, we might actually be married by the time the snow melts.”

Marcus laughed at that. “I thought ours was a fairly average courtship length.”

“Not really,” Neroon admitted. “We’ve been delayed substantially, by the need for secrecy. And by the Shadow war, and the civil war, and rebuilding, and some of the rituals taking longer than they should, and trying to coordinate with Lennier and Helacann’s schedule. Those two will actually be married before we are, and they started two months later!”

Marcus grinned at his fiancé’s aggrieved tone. “We’re that slow?” he asked.

“Marcus, a usual Minbari courtship lasts for maybe half a cycle. We first spoke our hearts to each other when you were returned to duty after we fought den’shah. We agreed to wait the requisite four months, and I formally asked permission to court you shortly before the first snows fell. We are now in the last quarter of winter. It is already an entire earth year since that first conversation.”

Marcus did the math in his head, and whistled. “I got a bit turned around by all the snow; on earth it’s well into spring. Very well, the faster the better! What am I in for today?”

“The three rituals of exchange,” Neroon informed him. “Not that they’re the only three rituals of exchange, but they fall one after the other and are often performed as a single ritual, so they came to be called that. The first is an exchange of training. We will describe how and where and by who we were trained, sharing unique methods we learned and whatever memories we wish to divulge.”

Marcus winced. “Neroon, that might not be entertaining. I was trained by EFI, remember? There are things about that training that I never want to remember, and I certainly don’t want to repeat the experience even as a demonstration.”

“You were trained first by the miners on Arisia, you told me,” Neroon countered. “Show me those methods, and share those memories. Tell me of being the first human to study the denn’bok under Sech Druhan. The rest will wait until you are ready to speak of it.”

“What if I’m never ready?” Marcus asked. “What if there’s always this decade-long gap in my past that you know nothing about, because I’ll never be able to face it?”

Neroon stopped, and cupped a hand along the side of his face, looking seriously into his eyes. “Marcus, if that is the case, then I will count myself blessed to have as much of you as I do. I do not need to know every detail of your life before we met. There are things in everyone’s heart that are too painful, or embarrassing, to share. I have them as well; will you hold it against me, that I never speak of my actions during the Earth-Minbari war?”

Marcus shook his head. “No.”

“Then do not believe I will hold it against you that you have demons equal to my own.” Neroon dropped his hand and stole a quick kiss before resuming his path to the training room.

“What are the other exchanges?” Marcus wondered, hurrying to catch up.

“The second is the exchange of scars, and this will be a very hard ritual for me to bear,” Neroon admitted, his eyes twinkling.

“Why?” Marcus asked, unable to think of anything strange about sharing the stories behind scars.

“Because we must share all of our scars,” Neroon told him frankly. “Which means that if you are hiding any under your clothing, and I know you are, you must remove it.”

Marcus gaped at him for a moment, then whacked him on the arm, ducking and twisting to enter the training room first. “I can’t believe you!” he gasped, putting on airs a Victorian grandmother would have been proud of.

Neroon grinned. “I admit, it is a rather silly excuse to see each other naked, and given the length of our courtship I, at least, will have to exercise considerable restraint to avoid taking liberties, but it could be fun.”

Marcus blushed to the roots of his hair. “You won’t be the only one having a hard time,” he muttered, thoroughly embarrassed and more than a little aroused by the thought.

Neroon blinked, and cleared his throat, shaking himself back to reality. “Yes, well, the third ritual is an exchange of secrets. We’re supposed to tell each other something we’ve never told anyone else. There aren’t any other stipulations, though, so if you feel like telling me something ridiculous about who really stole the cookies when you were a child, that’s perfectly allowed.”

Marcus blinked, then laughed. “Maybe in your childhood cookie stealing featured prominently, but it certainly didn’t in mine! Very well, let’s begin.” He took a position in the middle of the room and began instructing Neroon in some of the more unique and unusual styles he’d picked up during his early training. 

They moved on from there to a comparison of learning under Sech Durhan, and a few mock-battles ensued as they argued over who had been the better student. It was by far the most fun Marcus had had in a long time. Especially since he no longer worried about the lingering effects of Neroon’s injuries in the Starfire Wheel. Well, not much, he had to clarify as he allowed Neroon more victories than he might normally have.

They eventually fell to the padded floor, sweaty and tired but happy. Neroon offered a bottle of some kind of fruit juice, and Marcus downed it gratefully.

“Who do you wish to go first?” Neroon asked.

“Perhaps I’d better,” Marcus said. “Before you catch your breath.” He quickly stood and shucked everything he was wearing, his blush back in full force and travelling southward as Neroon’s jaw dropped open.

“See something you like?” he asked his slightly dazed fiancé, striking a classic pin-up pose and trying desperately not to look as though he’d like to hide behind his hair.

Neroon had to clear his throat three times before he could speak, and eventually settled on simply nodding.

“Well, then. Scars. This,” he pointed to his chest, “Was the result of a PPG hit. This one was from a kitchen knife I cut myself with when I was a teenager. This is from a medical procedure to implant a transponder so my EFI superiors could locate me. This is from EFI training, this is from Ranger training.” He pointed to a long white line across his ribs. “This one, I picked up in a bar fight somewhere near Mars. This, I got from a dog leash wrapping around my leg. This from falling off my bicycle the first time I visited Earth. This one here is where they sewed me up after our first encounter. And the grand finale,” he turned and bent over slightly, grinning at the strangled noise Neroon made when presented with his bum, “is where Will shot me in the arse while we were learning archery.”

He quickly skinned back into his clothes and sat, grinning at the look on Neroon’s face. It was a cross between gobsmacked and turned on, and about one step away from hysterical laughter. It took several moments before Neroon could regain enough composure to speak.

“Your brother shot you in the arse?” he squeaked, aware that it wasn’t a dignified tone for a Warrior and not much caring.

“Yes,” Marcus confirmed. “Little bastard. Take my word for it, Neroon. An arrow in the arse hurts like blazes.”

Neroon burst out laughing, tackling Marcus to the floor and pinning him to give him a longer, wetter, sloppier kiss than he ever had before. Marcus looked a little stunned himself by the time they were done.

“I’m afraid none of mine are that interesting,” Neroon admitted, removing only his shirt. “Or plentiful. Minbari don’t scar easily. I only have three. This one,” he gestured to a thin line above his eyebrow that Marcus enjoyed tracing on slow nights spent on his couch, “I’ve told you before I got from slamming into a chunk of ice while trying to slide down Mount Vareni in the winter when I was nine. This,” he gestured to a scar on his upper right arm, then shifted to show the exit mark as well, “I earned in the war, when a piece of bridge debris went through my arm. And this,” he finished, pointing to a thin line across one palm, “Is where I swore blood brotherhood to my friend Hedronn of the Moon Shields when we were young and stupid.”

“You wish you hadn’t?” Marcus asked, as Neroon slid back into his shirt. 

“It was a silly thing to do,” Neroon said. “And completely meaningless. Minbar has never had the concept of blood brotherhood, only of Clan adoption. We got the idea from a contraband Centauri romance series we got hold of in our teens.”

Marcus stared at him. “You read contraband Centauri romance novels?” he gasped, breathless and near tears from laughter.

Neroon laughed right along with him. “We did. I had a terrible crush on him, you know. Or thought I did, because of course Minbari don’t form crushes. I came up with that idea from those books as well. My father still likes to tease me about the terrible poetry I wrote to him. Fortunately, Hedronn and I got over that phase and grew up to have a solid and lasting friendship. You met him, during the Shadow War.”

Marcus smiled, and shifted over to rest his head on Neroon’s shoulder as they both lay back, staring at the domed ceiling of the training room. “I remember. He was quite nice to me.”

“He’s nice to everyone. Someday I’ll have to introduce you to his wife; she’s the Sech for the youngest members of the Clan, and very fearsome with a padded denn’bok.”

Marcus chuckled again. “Oh my. I look forward to it.” He paused a moment. “I believe I have a secret for you.”

“Oh?” Neroon asked. “I have one for you as well, but go ahead.”

Marcus smiled up at the ceiling. “Well, it isn’t entirely a secret. A lot of people were present when this happened, but no one could figure out who the culprit was.”

“I knew it!” Neroon crowed. “You stole the cookies, didn’t you? Someone has to be teaching Fara how to do it, and it certainly isn’t me!”

Marcus laughed, and rolled over. He braced himself with a hand on either side of Neroon’s shoulders, smiling down into the Minbari’s dark eyes. “Actually, that’s your sister. No, this happened at an official dinner my father was hosting, to welcome Arisia into Earth Gov as an actual colony world and not just a trade outpost. There were dignitaries from all over human-controlled space. The President herself was there, if I remember correctly. Will was just a baby, so I was quite young.”

Neroon blinked up at him. “What did you do?” he asked.

“Well, I’d been sent up to bed. Humans have these wonderful pyjamas for children; you can undo buttons at the waist and let down a panel that covers the bum, so you don’t have to fight to get the child entirely undressed to go to the bathroom.”

Neroon blinked again, realization dawning. “You didn’t.”

“I most certainly did!” Marcus crowed. “Right before the desert course. There was a small window in one wall – the room was usually used for large meetings, and the window allowed notes and dishes and things to be delivered to people outside without having to haul open the heavy airlock doors every room on the colony had to have. So, I very carefully hauled myself up into that window and mooned the entire assembly. By the time they got the door open I’d run back to my room and gotten into bed. I’m sure many of them suspected, but no one could ever prove it was me.”

Neroon reached up to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes, then brought his arms back down to circle Marcus’ waist. “I’m afraid my secret is not nearly so interesting,” he admitted.

“I’d like to hear it anyway,” Marcus encouraged, leaning down for a light kiss after he spoke.

“Well, you know the statue of Valen in the library in Yed’oore?”

Marcus nodded. “The one that’s a thousand years old, and has massive guardrails all around it and signs up saying ‘do not touch’?”

“That’s the one,” Neroon agreed. “Well, I was in the library during a power outage once, and I was a rather impulsive child… I climbed over the guardrails and up the statue and set a little toy bird on his bonecrest. The librarians were furious, especially because there were too many children in the place on school trips to ever figure out who owned the bird.”

Marcus kissed him again. “You little helliion, you.” He smiled down into Neroon’s eyes. “I suppose that means our rituals are done for the day?”

“The rituals, yes,” Neroon agreed, tightening his embrace and rolling them over so Marcus was on the bottom. “But I’m going to keep you here anyway.”

Marcus smiled, and offered no objections when Neroon proceeded to snog the life out of him. If anything, he participated most enthusiastically. 

***

Another valsta passed quietly. The estate goks started tumbling around people’s feet again, this year’s batch of goklings still unsteady on their too-large feet. Marcus had barely noticed when they’d gone into hibernation somewhere deep in the bowels of the estate, but now he could barely move without tripping over one of the creatures. A tiny black-furred gokling seemed to have adopted him, following him everywhere. Fara thought this was hilarious, and giggled whenever she saw them together.

Giggled, that was, until Neroon presented her with her very own tawny-furred gokling, and it took up semi-permanent residence on her head, snuggling against her growing bonecrest. Then, she just looked stunned, and took to hugging the creature half to death while running about getting into scrapes with the other estate children.

The shutters blocking windows from the second floor up were thrown back, allowing bright sunlight through crystalline panes into the estate. It lit up jewel-toned fabrics and sculptures that had lived the long winter illuminated only by artificial lighting tracks in the ceilings and candles on the walls. The courtyard in the center of the estate was uncovered, retractable panels sliding back into the building to allow sunlight into the space once more.

Everything was still covered by a thick blanket of snow, but Marcus thought it was slightly smaller than it had been. He’d studied the weather patterns of the area, and knew that although winter still had most of a quarter to go before it was officially over, the worst of the storms has passed. The most they’d get now would be a thick wet half-rain that would send the children out for a snow war of epic proportions. Marcus fully intended to join in, should that happen. No sense in letting them have all the fun.

The opening of the estate brought with it yet another change. Lennier and Helacann returned from visiting Lennier’s family, where they’d been since the civil war had concluded. Marcus hadn’t seen the priest in over a month, but had received more than one note from him. Lennier was anxious to assure both he and Neroon that he held them blameless for trapping him in Ilriam while his people suffered. Delenn, Marcus wasn’t so sure he forgave. They would have to wait and see.

“How are you?” Marcus asked, when his friend stepped out onto one of the balconies. He was soaking up the sunlight eagerly; the balconies had been closed off for many weeks as the last of the truly horrendous storms moved through.

“Quite well, thank you,” Lennier responded. “My family are all uninjured, although there was some structural damage to the monastery. Helacann and I helped repair what we could. It may sound strange, given the circumstances, but it was a pleasant visit.”

Marcus smiled. “I’m glad. They still like Helacann, then?”

Lennier smiled the smile of the almost-married. “Oh yes. Mother said that if it wasn’t for their vows of seclusion, every unmarried child of the Clan would be up here searching for Star Riders mates.”

Marcus laughed heartily. “I’m glad they’re happy for you.”

“Your parents would have been as well,” Lennier observed. “From everything I have ever heard you say about them.”

“Would they?” Marcus asked. “I’m not so sure. They both died before the war with your people, so they may at that. I’m glad to see you again, my friend.”

Lennier smiled. “I’m glad to be back. I never thought I’d call anywhere home but the monastery and perhaps Babylon 5, but this place just calls to me. I could happily spend my life here.”

“I’m glad I’ll have at least one friend with me for life, then,” Marcus smiled. “Since it seems like I’m stuck here as well.”

“You don’t sound unhappy about that,” Lennier smiled, then looked down in surprise as Marcus’ gok woke up and complained of hunger. Loudly.

Marcus chuckled, and pulled out one of the gok treats he’d taken to carrying in a pocket, teasing the tiny animal for a moment before relenting and giving it to her. She seized her prey and dragged it off to a secluded corner, fighting as if it was still alive instead of long-dried. Marcus chuckled to watch her go.

“I think we’re both quite happy where we are,” he finally answered Lennier, after she’d gone.

“Hmm,” Lennier agreed, looking out at the snow-covered forest that started past the estate gates. “On that note, I have something to ask you which may make you uncomfortable.”

Marcus shot him a look of surprise. “I can’t imagine what, but ask away.”

“As you know, while my family approves of my choice, they will not leave the monastery. You have been kind enough to step in as my chaperone for those rituals that Helacann and I carried out here. I must ask you to stand up for me again.”

Marcus shrugged. “Of course. You don’t have to ask, Lennier. What ritual have you gotten up to now?”

“The Shon’fal,” Lennier answered bluntly.

Marcus choked on nothing. “Oh,” he coughed, gasping for breath. “I might’ve guessed. You’ll be married within a few weeks, then, I imagine.”

Lennier smiled happily. “Yes. Will you? We can take Helacann’s parents and return to the monastery, if you find the idea completely repugnant. But I would rather be here, in our home.”

Marcus shook his head. “I would be honoured,” he said. “Just… don’t let Helacann ask Neroon to be one of the witnesses? I’m not sure my nerves could take that.”

Lennier sent him an absolutely filthy smirk, an expression Marcus hadn’t ever expected to see on the young priest’s face. “I promise. You should go find Neroon; he’s enlisted the children to search for you, and you know what will happen if they find you before you find him.”

Marcus chuckled, remembering only too well the time several weeks previously, when the Clan’s children had surrounded him and proceeded to hold him hostage for stories. Neroon had had to bargain with nearly the entire stock of cookies his sister had just finished to get them to release him.

“I’ll do that,” he said. “And Lennier… when the time comes, will you be witness for me as well?”

Lennier bowed. “I would be honoured,” he said, and departed. Marcus spent a few more minutes staring up into a perfect blue sky before employing all his stealth training to sneak around the children and find his fiancé. 

In the end he wasn’t quite successful, and Neroon was required to offer up three goklings and a jar of crystal sugar to free him. Marcus predicted baleful glares from certain parents in his near future.

***

Marcus, dressed in the formal Ranger uniform he’d been wearing all night, was intercepted on his way home from Lennier’s rooms by Ardiri. She was astonishingly free of flour.

“You need to go to Neroon’s rooms,” she told him, face serious. “All the Clan Elders have finally arrived for Helacann’s wedding.”

Marcus blinked sleep from his eyes. It had been a long night. “All right.” He didn’t bother asking her what the Elders needed with him; he’d find out soon enough, or Neroon would tell him. The quicker he finished whatever it was, the quicker he’d be able to go to bed. And desperately not think about the things he now knew about his friend. Although Lennier had given him a few good ideas for his own Shon’fal…

Marcus shook those thoughts out of his head as well as he could when he reached Neroon’s door. It wouldn’t do to tease them both more than he had to. They’d finished thirty-seven of the required rituals, with another thirteen to go before they were married. It was getting harder by the day to keep their hands to themselves, or at least appropriately far away from certain bodyparts.

“What do you need, Neroon?” Marcus yawned, stepping into his fiance’s rooms, far too tired for subtlety.

“The Clan Elders have arrived,” Neroon told him. “They’ll be in a meeting all day today. Anyone with business to bring before them has to present themselves now; the next scheduled meeting won’t be for another three valsta.”

Marcus blinked, then shook his head. “Not following, sorry.”

Neroon stared at him in surprise, then smiled. “Of course, the Shon’fal. Lennier probably forgot to tell you, and you haven’t been near anyone else to ask. The next ritual is yours alone; you have to go before the Clan Elders and formally request admittance into the Star Riders Clan. It is a chance for my Clan to evaluate your actions both during our courtship and before, and determine if they want you to become one of us. It’s similar to the third ritual, the interview we had with Aunt Aalann, but more formal and more binding. If they do not accept you, when we marry I will lose any claim to the Star Riders Clan.”

Marcus woke up at that, and stared at him. “You mean, if they don’t like me, you lose your Clan? Neroon!”

Neroon shook his head. “I do not think it is a great risk, Marcus. You have acted with great honour and compassion in the time you have been on Minbar. They can find nothing unsuitable in my choice.”

“Except my blood,” Marcus muttered, but straightened and turned for the door. “Well, I’m already dressed for it. Let’s get this over with.”

Neroon led him to one of the more public areas of the estate, past several training halls and into a small room with a long table set up at one end. The table was covered in the usual administrative mess of paperwork, data crystals, and cups of tea. There were ten Elders seated at intervals around it, Aalann at the center of the table. All of them looked up when the door opened, unsurprised to see Neroon but clearly a bit startled by his companion.

“What do I do?” Marcus whispered to Neroon. 

“Just ask,” Neroon assured him. “I will wait here.”

Marcus squared his shoulders, hoping he didn’t look as tired as he felt. He moved into the room until he stood directly before Aalann, then bowed to each of the Elders in turn. 

They returned his bow. “What brings you to the Star Riders Elders?” Aalann asked after it became clear Marcus couldn’t quite find his tongue.

“I have a request to make of the Star Riders Clan,” Marcus finally got out around the knot of tension that seemed to have lodged itself in his throat. “And also, a favour. I ask that no matter what your answer to me is, that Neroon suffer no punishment because of it.”

Startled looks were shot between most of those at the table, but Aalann only smiled. “You may ask, Anla’Shok.”

Marcus cleared his throat. “I formally request admittance into the Star Riders Clan, as the ma’fela of Neroon son of Ardminn.”

Pandemonium broke out, but at least it did so quietly. Several Elders began talking at once, asking rapid-fire questions of each other, Marcus, Neroon, and the universe in general. Aalann allowed it to continue for a moment, before holding her hand up for silence. When that didn’t work, she extended her denn’bok and thumped it onto the table.

“How long have you been courting my nephew?” Aalann asked. 

Marcus shrugged. “It’s more that he’s been courting me, honestly. As to time… officially, since the beginning of winter. But we spoke of it several months before that, and agreed to wait for the end of the war. I do not know whether the courtship is counted from the first declaration of intent or not.”

“Aalann, you can’t seriously be considering,” one of the Elders spluttered.

“Why not?” Aalann interrupted him. “Tell me, Anla’Shok, have you followed all of our courtship rituals?”

Marcus nodded. “We have. The oldest and most formal rituals possible, where there was an option, Elder.”

Aalann looked at her fellow Elders. “We have here a young man who has chosen to live among us and honour our ways. He requests admittance into our Clan as the spouse of one of our own. They are fulfilling the steps of a formal and traditional courtship. Are there any objections?”

“He’s not Minbari!” another Elder interjected. “Aalann, I agree with you, but he’s not Minbari, and the law clearly states that we may not marry aliens!”

“Ah, but is he alien?” Aalann asked. “That is the question. What makes him an alien?”

“He,” the same Elder began, then broke off frowning. “No, you’re right. Blast, do we have a copy of the Alien Prohibition anywhere?”

A massive rush of shifting papers and crystals ensued as the Elders hunted through their stacks for a copy of the laws of Minbar. Someone finally unearthed it. They all read through it slowly, then exchanged a long look.

“Well, Marcus,” Aalann said. “The law is quite clear. An alien is anyone who does not live on Minbar, is not a member of any Caste or Clan – excluding if they are Anla’Shok – does not have a Minbari soul, and does not share basic Minbari biology.”

Marcus bowed. “Then I am breaking the law by asking. I apologize, and ask that no censure be placed on Neroon.”

“Hold one moment, young man,” a stuffy-looking Elder from the end of the table put in. “Apart from that appalling fur you have, I can’t say as you look all that different from over here. I’ve heard your soul vouched for from several quarters in the past few months, you’re an Anla’Shok, and you live here. I’d say you’re well within your rights. A vote, Aalann?”

Aalann smiled. “I’m glad you suggested it. A vote, then? All in favour of admitting Marcus Cole of the Anla’Shok into our Clan, raise your denn’bok.”

Ten weapons snicked open. “Well, that settles that,” Aalann said. “Welcome to the Star Riders, Marcus. I’m glad we had this chat, see you at the wedding in a few days. Now where did those blasted census figures get to?” the Elders turned back to Clan business, and Marcus and Neroon escaped the room with relief.

“I can’t believe how easy that was,” Marcus whispered as they walked back towards his rooms.

“Aalann warned them ahead of time, and they had mostly sorted it out before they got here,” Neroon informed him. “Also, the recent disputes worked in our favour. They’ll agree to almost anything that shows more tolerance for difference and change right now; no one wants a return to Clan warfare.”

Marcus yawned. “I suppose I can see that.” He stopped at his door. “I’d invite you in, but I’ll just fall asleep on you.”

“Don’t worry,” Neroon assured him. “I was only walking you back here. I have a date with Fara and the snow; she’s afraid it will all melt before we have another chance to become sufficiently soaked.”

Marcus looked out the window at the still waist-high drifts. “Good luck with that,” he said, and was finally free to seek his bed.

***

Lennier’s wedding day dawned bright and clear, a warm breeze rushing up from the south. The snow was still piled high, but it could clearly be heard dripping off tree branches and gutters as it melted. In the distance, the river that ran through the Star Riders lands could be heard cracking and rushing as the ice on it broke up. Marcus hadn’t believed the width of the bank markers when he’d seen it towards the end of the summer on his first visit, but having seen how much snow would be melting and filling it he could well imagine the river twice or even three times the marked size.

Lennier and Helacann were both splendidly dressed, Lennier in white, Helacann in a flattering charcoal grey. They were smiling fit to burst as Ardminn read the short service, and Marcus could clearly see the twinkle in Lennier’s eyes as they both partook of the bright red berries to seal their union. Marcus fulfilled his duties as Lennier’s witness, signing the marriage certificate next to Helacann’s father, and offered the couple his sincere congratulations before moving off to enjoy the party set out in the miraculously snow-free courtyard. He wondered how many Minbari had been up at dawn shovelling out the snow that had fallen before the storm shield was set in midwinter. 

“Come sit with me,” Aalann ordered, moving past him to a small grouping of seats set near a bush Marcus couldn’t identify. The plants were still deep in hibernation. 

Neroon joined them, bringing steaming cups of tea with him, and Aalann smiled at her nephew. “Very good. We’ve finally taught you manners.”

Marcus chuckled. “Only around you,” he assured her. Neroon glowered at him.

“As it should be,” Aalann waved that comment aside. “Now, Marcus, the next ritual for you. It is called the day of Elders, and you and Neroon are supposed to spend it with the Elders of your new Clan, soaking up their stories and wisdom. Quite frankly, with all the recent trouble, we don’t have the time to spend a full day trading stories with you. So we talked it over, and decided that the amount of time you’ve already spent with us, hearing tales from Neroon’s family and whoever else will tell them, learning from the Clan Sechs and Dr’aals – this counts.”

Marcus breathed a small sigh of relief. “So what will we be doing instead?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Aalann answered. She let them share a grin of relief for a few moments before bursting their bubble. “You still have to appear as if you’ve passed the ritual, though, so while young Lennier and Helacann are dancing their way through this party, you two will have to sit and listen to me talk. How nice for you.”

Marcus shared an amused glance with Neroon, and they settled themselves more comfortably. “Yes, Aunt Aalann,” the chorused.

“We’ll make a Star Rider of you yet, Marcus Cole,” she threatened, and proceeded to fill a good part of the day with stories of other marriages and ceremonies the Clan had hosted over the years. As time went on, and her stories ranged over a variety of people, places, and topics, most of the Clan had the opportunity to sit by and listen. If anyone noticed that Marcus and Neroon were the only ones who stayed for the entire day, they didn’t comment on it.

***

“Has anyone ever explained why so many of these rituals revolve around food?” Marcus asked curiously as he cooked a private dinner for Neroon nearly a week later. They’d all gotten caught up in the aftermath of Lennier’s wedding, helping he and Helacann set up their new rooms and settle into life as a couple. It had been quite entertaining, that first morning, to watch the slightly stunned expression on Lennier’s face whenever he looked at his new husband. In Marcus’ opinion it made up for every tense look he’d seen the young priest wear on Babylon 5.

“What do you mean?” Neroon asked from his couch, where he was engrossed in one of Marcus’ historical novels.

“Well, there just seem to be an awful lot of rituals that require either a full formal Clan dinner or a private one that one of us cooks,” Marcus observed. “Why?”

Neroon looked up, and chuckled at the sight of Marcus wrapped in an apron to protect his off-duty human clothing. It was actually the same green oriental-collared shirt that Neroon had admired on his ma’fela shortly after their den’shah. Now, though, it was topped by wildly dissarrayed hair and flour stains that would make his sister proud.

“Hush, you,” Marcus laughed. “I can always not let you eat any of the pie.”

“I thought pie was a desert food?” Neroon asked, confused.

“It depends on what’s in it. This is not-quite-chicken pie, because Minbar doesn’t actually have chickens. And it’s almost ready, so come sit down. You never answered my question,” Marcus rambled as he pulled a dish out of the oven with protective mittens and set it on the counter to cool a bit before serving. 

“I suppose it’s because we’re intended to get to know each other better, and people tend to talk over a meal,” Neroon said. “None of these have been the meditative meals that the Religious Caste enjoys indulging in. We’ve always had good conversation, and I’ve learned a number of things about you this way.”

“Like what?” Marcus asked, wiping the flour off himself and straightening his hair as he set out tea and began dishing up the pie.

“Like that you can improvise foods from your home using ingredients found here. That you enjoy some tastes, and not others. That sometimes, I look up and see you helping our daughter through a meal, or passing a dish to my sister, and for no explicable reason I love you just a little bit more in that moment than I did before.”

Marcus paused, and blushed. “Thank you,” he said, setting Neroon’s plate down and giving him a quick kiss before taking his own seat at the other end of the table. “It’s mutual, you know.”

Neroon smiled. “I had a feeling.”

“So what should I expect from here on in? we have what, ten rituals left?” Marcus asked after taking the first bite.

“This is delicious,” Neroon complimented, then nodded. “Technically it’s eleven, but the last is the Na’fak Cha, the marriage ceremony, so ten more to get us to the altar. They will be… harder than some of the rituals we have gone through already.”

“Harder than the Trial of Shadow?” Marcus asked. “Harder than the ritual of pain? Harder than our week of separation?”

Neroon chuckled. “Point taken. But we’re approaching the point where our secrecy has to end, and so more of Minbar will know what we are doing. More people will think they have the right to an opinion about our lives. Even those who don’t know us. It could become very uncomfortable.”

“If I wanted comfortable, I’d have married some human girl twenty years ago and had her pop out a few babies,” Marcus countered. “What’s first?”

“Permission from the Warrior Council,” Neroon said. “I was going to bring this up later. I’ve requested some time at their next meeting, in a valsta’s time. They’ve granted it.”

“Another valsta?” Marcus sighed.

“It can’t be helped, Marcus,” Neroon apologized. “If you were Minbari, and the recent troubles had not happened, I could have requested an immediate session. But it is still best that we prove we can go along with the older traditions, and that we are strong enough to wait. It gives us something to bargain with.”

“I understand, but you can’t blame me for being impatient. Especially seeing how happy Lennier looks this week,” Marcus grinned. “What do I need to know about this meeting?”

“Wear your uniform,” Neroon advised. “It will give you a certain visible status that you might be thankful for. Other than that, I don’t know. With the upheaval, and the lack of a Shai Alyt, I just don’t know what will happen. Since you’re not Warrior Caste, I’ll be doing most of the talking. Only Warriors need permission from the Council to marry, after all.”

Marcus smiled. “You in the hot seat for once? I think I can handle that. Something to look forward to, anyway.” He took a sip of tea, then abruptly changed the subject. “Did I tell you about the message I got from Babylon 5? It seems the Psi Corp tried to abduct Captain Sheridan. Lyta went to Mars to enlist Michael, Stephen, and the Resistance in getting him out. She sent word that someone had been messing with Michael’s head, so she undid whatever it was they’d done. Everyone’s back on the station recovering now, and by all accounts Michael’s back to his old self.”

Neroon blinked. “I’m glad that Sheridan escaped such a fate, but why is the rest of this relevant?” 

“Because I knew something was wrong with Michael!” Marcus exclaimed happily. “I was afraid I was losing my edge, either that or getting paranoid. But there was something there!”

Neroon could only shake his head and enjoy the pie, as Marcus continued to congratulate himself on his observational skills.

***

The chamber for the Warrior Council at the Moon Shields estate was little different from the same room in the Star Riders estate, Marcus observed as they were led into the echoing chamber. There was no gallery of observers today; all that was being conducted was day-to-day Caste business, and only those with a petition to put before the Council would be anywhere near the room. 

The sixth seat on the dais was echoingly empty, the absence of the Shai Alyt like a fresh blow to those for whom the images of burned bodies and shattered cities had not yet faded. Shakiri had been stripped of his name and rank and exiled to one of the barely-habitable moons Minbar kept as prisons. There was no way off; he would have to eke out whatever meager existence he could among the prisoners there. Marcus didn’t think it was enough of a punishment, but with the end of the civil war had come a resumption of Valen’s laws, and he couldn’t be killed. By a Minbari, Marcus clarified. He wondered if any of his contacts from EFI were interested in a commission…

“Neroon of the Star Riders,” a Warrior of the Moon Shields announced, before bowing and leaving the room. Neroon led the way forward to stand in front of the Council, Marcus following a few paces behind and pushing his disquieting thoughts away, disgusted that he could even contemplate such a thing. They bowed in unison.

“Welcome, Neroon,” Rathenn of the Moon Shields bowed back to them. “What can we do for you?”

“I have come to ask the Council for permission to marry,” Neroon stated bluntly. Marcus was impressed; he’d thought it would take several roundabout exchanges for his fiancé to get his point across. Perhaps Neroon was as nervous as he was.

“A joyous occasion,” Kalain of the Fire Wings smiled at him. “Your intended – are they of the Warrior Caste?”

“He is not,” Neroon admitted, “Although I consider that to be the Caste’s loss, and not his.”

Suspicion dawned in a few eyes. “He is Religious, then?” Kalain continued. “Or Worker?”

“He is Anla’Shok,” Neroon corrected. “He stands before you.”

Marcus felt proud that he’d anticipated the reactions so well. Rathenn’s eyes widened, but he remained otherwise still, contemplating. Aalann’s eyes were bright with humour. Sinoval of the Night Walkers looked like someone had clubbed him upside the head with a board. Kalain was equally shocked, but far less quiet. Mazik, of the shamed Wind Swords, was practically sputtering with rage.

“How dare you make a mockery of this council?” Mazik shouted, hand twitching towards his weapon.

“I intend no mockery,” Neroon argued. “I have completed the required rituals up to this point, and now I ask the Council’s permission, as any of our Caste must do.”

“He speaks the truth,” Aalann defended them quietly. “I have been monitoring the courtship. They have honoured the oldest and most sacred of our traditions more strictly than most of our people do.”

“You allowed this travesty?” Mazik demanded. “Aalann!”

“Travesty?” Rathenn asked, seeming to come to a decision. “I would call it many things, Mazik, but not a travesty.”

“The Alien Prohibition,” Sinoval put in quietly while Mazik was regrouping.

“Yes, yes, that damned Prohibition,” Aalann waved it off. “I’ve heard it argued that if Valen’s Ban applies to the humans, the Prohibition should not.”

“A reasonable argument,” Rathenn acknowledged. “And we all know that the Religious Caste applies that Ban to humans, or the war with them would never have ended the way it did. I do not know if I agree, but our people cannot be torn apart by a point of philosophy at this time.”

“True,” Sinoval acknowledged. “Mazik? Have you another objection?”

“Other than the unnatural nature of this union?” Mazik growled.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Rathenn interpreted. “This is quite the situation you lay at our feet, Neroon. We can hardly deny you permission to wed when the Elder of your Clan tells us you have courted properly and gives her approval. And yet, we can hardly give our own approval given the current political climate.”

“What about the Na’fak Isil’cha?” Marcus asked. 

“The Renewal Ceremony?” Rathenn asked, startled. “I can’t even imagine how old the books you’ve been digging through for protocol are, Anla’Shok. That could only be used if Neroon was a woman. In ancient days, when a Clan was defeated in battle, the victor would give the loser a daughter of their Clan, to ensure hostilities didn’t break out again by making the losing Clan into a sub-family. It’s how the Chu’Domo Fanes came about. But Neroon isn’t a daughter of the Warrior Caste, it’s debatable which of our people lost the Earth-Minbari war, and in any case that ritual hasn’t been used in more than a thousand years.”

“There, you’d be wrong,” Aalann countered. “The Religious Caste used it some weeks ago, to allow Delenn to marry John Sheridan of Babylon 5 without causing a stir on Minbar. Their wedding is set for next month.”

“The Religious Caste believed that they could ignore the Alien Prohibition and conceal it?” Mazik roared.

Rathenn’s denn’bok slammed into the floor. “I will NOT have another civil war started in this room, Mazik! Your Clan has done enough damage already! Be glad you still HAVE a Clan, and a seat on this Council!”

Mazik deflated slightly, but glared daggers at Neroon.

“That changes things. If the Prohibition is already broken, we have two options,” Sinoval put in, once order had been restored. “We can condemn the Religious Caste for what they’ve allowed, and tear our people apart further. Or we can accept what they’ve done, take it a step farther, and begin rebuilding our people. If the phrase ‘our people’ expands to include those who are Minbari by choice – such as the alien Anla’Shok – as well as those who are Minbari by birth, it can do us no greater harm than we have already done ourselves. The Star Riders led the way long ago in putting the calling of the heart ahead of the Caste one was born to; we should be unsurprised that on the brink of great changes in our world, it is once again the Star Riders showing the way to a united future.”

“Thank you, Sinoval,” Aalann bowed deeply to her colleague. “My vote is that they be allowed to marry, but you already knew that.”

“Indeed,” Rathenn smiled. “They could not have gotten this far without your support, Aalann.” He sighed deeply. “So many changes. The entire universe has shifted so much in such a short time. I hardly know which way is up anymore. Very well; the Religious Caste has already broken the Prohibition. What can we do but follow? I vote that you be allowed to try; if your marriage falls apart, well, proof that we were right all along. I personally hope that it lasts, and proves what we have always believed; that in love, it is the soul that is important, not the form.”

“Agreed. Luck to you both,” Sinoval smiled slightly. “You’ll need it.”

Kalain just shrugged. “I don’t know what to say. You’re welcome to try; I don’t know how this will turn out.”

Mazik just snarled.

“Thank you,” Neroon said, bowing as deeply as Marcus had ever seen him bow to anyone. Marcus quickly followed suit, and they turned to exit the room.

“Neroon, one more thing,” Rathenn’s voice stopped them before they had taken more than three steps. 

“Yes?” Neroon turned.

“Were you aware that you were our first choice to replace Shakiri as Shai Alyt?”

Neroon bowed. “I knew, and I am honoured. But it is not a position I desire. I have been corrupted by power once already; I do not wish to be tempted by it again.”

“Ah,” Rathenn said. “I suppose that’s just as well. You know as well that your marriage, whether or not the Council supports you, would have barred you from holding such a position anyway? I am not even sure you will be able to continue as an Alyt; many in our Caste will object, and refuse to be led by you.”

Neroon shrugged. “The Star Riders will understand, and accept us. That is enough.” He bowed again and turned, guiding Marcus out of the room without further interruptions. Mazik’s glare and three very thoughtful stares followed them out.

“That went easier than I expected,” Marcus commented as the left the Moon Shields estate. “Although I am sorry I’ve cost you your chance at becoming Shai Alyt.”

“Hmm,” Neroon grunted noncommittally. “Please, do not apologize for that. I quite seriously do not want that power. As to the rest… it went easily in part because Delenn helped our cause. But mostly, it is as I have told you. They are just people. They uphold our laws as best they can, but in the present upheaval, when our laws are contradicting themselves and turning upside down every time you look, they follow their hearts. They aren’t completely happy for us, they don’t really understand us, but they’re not going to stop us. And that is the best I could ever have hoped for.”

Marcus took his hand, no longer afraid of who might see them. “Like the people in town,” he observed, referring to the small town near the Star Riders estate that he enjoyed spending time in. One of his fondest memories of the past several months was of the Quarter-Winter Festival that they’d attended there. 

“Very much like,” Neroon agreed. “They’re just people. Human, Minbari, Centauri, Narn, Gaim, whatever. Just people, living and letting their neighbours live, lending a hand where they can. The universe turns on the backs of such people.”

Marcus smiled, and agreed.

***

Marcus blinked in surprise when Neroon showed up at his door a few evenings later, in full armour. “Something wrong?” he asked, feeling a little bit rumpled in his sleep robe with his hair in disarray. He’d been about three seconds away from getting into bed.

Neroon frowned. “No,” he said, then looked down at himself. “Oh. The armour. I forget sometimes that you’re used to the Religious Caste. You’ve heard of the three nights ritual?”

Marcus nodded. “The woman watches for three nights, to see the true face of her fiancé revealed in sleep.”

Neroon nodded. “Well, the Warrior Caste does it slightly differently. It counts as two rituals, since we both have to do it. First I have to prove my worth to you and your Clan by guarding your sleep for three nights, then you will return the favour and prove yourself to my Clan.”

Marcus shook his head, but let Neroon in. “We’re in the middle of the Star Riders estate, Neroon. What could possibly happen?”

Neroon’s expression turned wry, but he didn’t answer. “I will be just outside the door to your bedroom, if that’s all right?”

Marcus shrugged. “Go ahead.” He yawned. “I really need to sleep, though.” He wrapped himself around Neroon for a longer than necessary goodnight kiss before vanishing through the door to his bedroom, leaving it open.

Neroon smiled happily, and waited until Marcus was asleep to enter the room, smiling in amusement at the way his ma’fela sprawled over half the bed. Like a gok, Marcus somehow managed to take up more room than should actually be possible according to the laws of physics. Neroon gently brushed his hair aside, smiling to see his face relaxed in sleep. Marcus was so animated when awake that Neroon treasured the few moments he’d been able to catch the man at rest and just appreciate how striking his features were. 

A slight thud out in the hallway brought his contemplation to an end, and he brushed a quick kiss over Marcus’ brow before leaving, closing the bedroom door behind him. He’d been expecting them earlier; he’d have to have a word with the Sechs about proper preparation times.

Three of the almost-graduated Warrior students slipped into the room; Neroon made a mental note to congratulate the one who made such clever use of the ductwork. He wouldn’t have thought of that. The battle was fought with padded children’s denn’boks, and Neroon trounced them easily, packing all three of them out the door before settling himself, practice weapon at the ready. They may or may not be the only foray tonight; he was well aware from participating in the ‘raiding’ parties himself that the best organizers scattered the attacks at totally unpredictable intervals.

He did take a moment, though, to make sure that anything valuable or breakable was put somewhere safe. Marcus would never forgive him if anything ended up broken.

Two more forays by students were easily defeated that first night. Marcus raised an eyebrow at Neroon’s slightly dishevelled appearance the next morning, but didn’t ask. He simply set about cooking breakfast for them both, providing Neroon with a caffeine-free tea and sending him off to bed for the morning before going to offer his assistance to the youngest weapon classes. A spare pair of hands was always needed, with dozens of five to eight cycle-old children trying to smack each other with blunt objects.

The second night Marcus let Neroon in slightly earlier, and they enjoyed a pleasant evening together before Marcus kissed him goodnight and went to bed. Neroon warmed himself with the cup of tea his ma’fela had pressed into his hands while he waited for the first attack, but he wasn’t entirely surprised when they held off until it was nearly dawn. They thought he’d let his guard down if they didn’t attack right away. Obviously, whoever was planning this had never participated in the raids Neroon had, or they’d have known it was a strategy he was famous for using himself.

Marcus came out of his bedroom shortly after the last attacker had been booted out the door, giving Neroon a slight smile and a kiss before setting about making both of them breakfast for a second day in a row. He didn’t say anything about the attacks, but something about the twinkle in his eye made Neroon think he’d guessed. That was all right; as long as Neroon didn’t actually tell him, no one could say that Marcus had received official warning.

“I could get used to this,” Marcus commented. “Seeing you last thing at night and first thing in the morning.”

Neroon smiled, falling a little bit more in love with this new sleepy-eyed Marcus who gave him quiet kisses in between cups of tea. “As could I,” he admitted, and helped Marcus clean up before wandering off to get some sleep himself.

The third night started early again, both of them deciding to allow Fara to stay up late and play a few trivia games with them. After they’d packed her back to the nursery, Marcus grinned and suggested teaching Neroon to dance, since they had several uninterrupted evenings left. Warrior training stood him in good stead; before too long he’d picked up the basics, and anyone looking in on them would have smiled to see the picture they made. Two tall figures, one slim and robed in loose black Minbari garments with black hair spilling over his shoulders, the other bulkier and stern in full Warrior Caste armour. Stern, that is, until Marcus set him to laughing, and then he lifted his human mate by the waist and spun him around the room until they were both dizzy before settling into a more sedate waltz. Marcus’ eyes were glowing when he finally kissed Neroon goodnight and vanished into his room.

Neroon smiled to himself, and settled in for the night, sure he was ready for whatever they could inflict on him. At least the participation in the traditional mock-raids showed, more than anything else really could have, that the Clan was treating their courtship as it would any other. Neroon was grateful for that; he hadn’t been quite sure how they’d react once the secrecy had been broken. His own family had supported him, but the rest of the Clan? But they’d surprised him. Most had simply nodded and gone about their business, as if they’d already known and had only been waiting for official confirmation. Their support meant more to him than he’d ever really be able to tell them.

The attack came rather more suddenly than it had the previous two nights, his opponents slipping silently through the window. The minute they began moving towards him, he knew he was not dealing with Star Riders trainees. He poised for a real fight, and took more than a few solid blows from the practice weapons his opponents held. None of them were fighting like Minbari, pulling dirty tricks from all over the universe in their efforts to get past him. Fortunately, he was well used to Marcus doing the same thing.

He was breathing heavily and nursing a bruised elbow by the time he had all three of his attackers prone on the floor, having dealt them ‘death’ blows within moments of each other. They all grumbled good-naturedly as they got back to their feet, tucking their weapons away. Neroon turned the lights on low and was severely unsurprised to see that all three were Anla’Shok. He’d met two of them at the Christmas party with Marcus; the lead attacker was the cheerful youth that had been manning the door, and the one who had landed the lucky blow on his elbow was the man who’d set fire to the food with Marcus. The other Neroon didn’t know. 

He offered them tea, but they declined politely and set about swinging themselves back out of the window, offering Neroon their congratulations. It seemed he’d passed the test of whether he was good enough to take Marcus from them. He felt obscurely pleased by that, then chided himself for such emotion. Of course he was good enough for Marcus. Still, it was good that Marcus’ colleagues appeared to approve.

Marcus only chuckled at the disorderly wreck of his cushions and fussed over Neroon a bit before sending him on his way with the usual cup of tea in the morning. Neroon had the feeling Marcus hadn’t been asleep, and also hadn’t been fooled for a moment, but that was all right. He’d understood enough of the purpose of the mock raids to stay in his room and pretend he wasn’t aware of them, and that was the real point of the test after all. If a Warrior did not trust their mate to fight their own battles, it said very poor things about the relationship. Neroon went on his way to get some much-needed rest with a cheerful heart.

That evening, it was Neroon’s turn to greet Marcus when he arrived after a subspace conference with Delenn looking mildly disgruntled.

“What is it?” Neroon asked.

“Oh, not much.” Marcus sighed. “Just that the White Star Fleet has left Babylon 5 headed for earth. I fell like I should be there.”

“Marcus, there is no rush. If you wish it, I will find a ship, and we will join the fight.”

Marcus shook his head. “No. I’d rather be here. There’s nothing I could do there that they don’t already have twenty people doing. It’s a human fight, and it’s best to keep Minbari ships and personnel out of it. I really have no right to be there. Let the Rangers who are colony or earth born fight for their government. I’ve already fought my civil war.”

“If you’re sure,” Neroon confirmed. Marcus didn’t sounds sure; he sounded as if he was trying to convince himself, and not succeeding overly well.

“I am. I’m doing more good here, taking on some of the training in Tuzan’oore so that others can go fight, than I would be out there. I’m not a fighter pilot except when I have to be, and that’s what they really need right now anyway.”

Neroon nodded, and offered him some hot chocolate he’d gotten his sister to work up. Not that Minbar had chocolate per se, but he’d worked out a deal with Chad and Reed the night before that had them supplying him certain luxuries from the Tuzan’oore kitchens in return for him not telling Marcus they’d tried to kidnap him. It was worth it to see the look on Marcus’ face as he sipped the beverage; Neroon had to quickly busy himself with other things to avoid doing something inappropriate.

Marcus finished the drink and sighed. “My turn to guard your rest?” 

“Yes,” Neroon agreed. “Do you need anything?” 

Marcus shook his head. “I should be fine. It’s hardly the worst all-night assignment I’ve ever had. Sleep well, ah’cala.” 

Neroon gave him a thorough kiss and retired, closing the door to his bedroom and leaving Marcus to face whichever of his Clan had been detailed to make the first sortie against the human.

Marcus, for his part, settled back against the wall, making sure he could reach all of his weapons easily. He was still in his uniform from the meeting, but since Neroon had spent the nights in full uniform when he was on guard, that was probably appropriate.

It was the dark part of the night, somewhere between midnight and dawn, when Marcus had the first inkling of trouble. The heavy outer door edged open, bringing him to full alert, but nothing came through. He’d just begun to relax when the ambush took him, hurtling in at knee height and just about dropping him to the floor. He applauded the ingenuity of whoever had gotten his tiny pike students to participate. The little imps were quite tenacious, as well as fast. Fortunately, though, four knee-high opponents were well within his capabilities. It helped that, despite the excitement, they all started yawning about halfway through their attack. Marcus managed to catch them all up in a group hug, and provided cookies to his vanquished foes before seeing them off with their keepers.

Following Neroon’s example, Marcus didn’t talk about the attack the next morning. He simply accepted the breakfast his fiancé cooked, and left with a kiss and a cup of tea. Like the British Navy of old, the Warrior Caste could be deprived of a number of things, but tea was not one of them.

The second night, Marcus remained slightly more alert. Which turned out to be a good thing; Neroon’s sister had managed to get in via the bathroom of all places, and nearly succeeded in making it to the bedroom while Marcus was busy exchanging blows with Nerlin. Marcus spotted her at the last second and tripped her with a handy floor pillow, but he took the lesson to heart. It wasn’t only from trained Warriors that danger could come.

Neroon smirked slightly at the state of his cushions the next morning, just as Marcus had, but they didn’t talk about it. Marcus knew he had to have heard Ardiri hit the floor; she’d hardly fallen gracefully, and even in his own home Neroon was a light sleeper. Marcus just hoped Neroon never found out that after tripping her, he’d proceeded to tie her up with the cord from Neroon’s uniform before depositing her in her mother’s keeping just outside the door. Nerlin had promised to make sure the cord made its way home in an unobtrusive manner.

After the somewhat comical attempts to kidnap Neroon on the first two nights, Marcus was surprised when, towards midnight of the third night, he was met by a single talented opponent sliding in through the window. Window entry was an old standby of both Rangers and EFI, so Marcus had rather more experience than the average Minbari in defending against it, but he was still hard pressed to keep the attacker back. The fight ranged around Neroon’s rooms, Marcus actually beginning to falter under the weight of full-strength blows from his Minbari adversary. 

A blow snuck under Marcus’ guard and tapped his ribs hard enough to leave a substantial bruise, if not a cracked bone. He snarled, and stopped playing nice. So far, his understanding had been that no one was to be seriously injured in these little games, but that appeared not to be the case. He took stock of the nearby weaponry, and carefully steered the fight into the kitchen, seizing one of Neroon’s large cast-metal pans and bringing it down over the stranger’s head. The bonecrest absorbed some of the blow, but no son of Mairi Cole could ever fail to bring his opponent to their knees when using kitchenware. Marcus appropriated the cord for the second night in a row and lashed his victim up as well as he could, retaking his post at the door.

A few hours later, when Neroon’s hand-picked final year trainees stormed through the door in a full-on assault, they were met by a decidedly unamused Ranger. Not more than five minutes after that, all five of them were staring at the ceiling, slightly dazed. Marcus helped them up and sent them on their way, after promising not to tell Neroon how easily they’d been trounced.

When Neroon finally put in an appearance a few hours after dawn, Marcus was still poised by his door, denn’bok open and ready. Neroon gave him an odd look.

Marcus gestured to their guest, still tied up in the Alyt’s uniform cording. The stranger was awake, and glaring balefully at Marcus.

Neroon blinked in shock, and quickly crossed the room, pulling the makeshift gag Marcus had formed from a handkerchief out of the man’s mouth. “Who are you?” Neroon asked.

The stranger refused to answer.

“I can find out if you do not tell me. It will be easier for us all if you simply answer,” Neroon informed him reasonably.

“He might have a concussion,” Marcus admitted, coming up behind Neroon. “I had to clock him with the frying pan.”

Neroon looked confused by the odd colloquialism, but shrugged. “Minbari do not get concussions easily, Marcus. If he had one, he would not be conscious.”

“Oh.” Marcus thought about that for a moment. “I could hit him again, then? Loosen his tongue a little?”

The strange Minbari snorted, and Neroon gave him a very serious look. “Oh, you shouldn’t take that lightly,” the Alyt assured his captive. “Marcus was an EFI agent. I imagine he knows some truly inventive ways to make you speak.”

The stranger’s eyes widened, and he apparently saw sense. “My name is Morann.”

“Morann,” Neroon repeated. “And you are a Star Rider, or you would not be on this estate now. Were you part of the planned attempts to kidnap me last night?”

Morann shook his head. “Such a ritual is wasted on you, Neroon.”

Neroon shared a long look with Marcus. “Indeed?” he finally asked. “Why is that?”

“You ask me that while your human pet stands behind you?” Morann spat. “Is it not enough that they pervert our traditions, now they pervert our bloodlines as well?”

Neroon snorted derisively at that. “The same human pet that trounced you and tied you up, even though you had the advantage of night vision?” Morann glowered. “Also, bloodlines? Unless there have been advances in medical technology I’m not aware of, there is no way on Earth or Minbar that we could have children together. Our species are biologically incompatible without the aid of the triluminary, even if we weren’t both men. Don’t be stupider than you have to be.”

Morann began to look slightly deflated. “Then why?”

“Because his soul calls to mine,” Neroon explained gently. “Are marriages only valid if they produce offspring? It would be a great shock to our history books if that were so.”

Morann shook his head. “I still object. You are making a laughingstock of our Clan, Neroon. This goes against laws and traditions that have been in place since the time of Valen.”

“A thousand years,” Neroon said. “In a thousand years, Marcus’ people have evolved from wearing furs and beating on each other with sharp metal sticks to travelling among the stars. What have we accomplished in a thousand years? We are stagnant. It is time for a change, before the universe moves on without us.”

“I cannot agree,” Morann countered. “Our traditions make us who we are.”

“Then we must agree to disagree,” Neroon said. “I will let you up, if I have your word you will not attack us again.”

Morann shrugged as well as he was able. “If he hadn’t been able to defend you, your marriage would have been called off. It was a reasonable attempt to regain the honour of our Clan. Another attack would be a worse blow to that honour.”

Neroon nodded. “Good enough.” He set about untying the young Warrior, then escorted him out of the room with a final admonition to think about the sort of changes that were coming to Minbar, whether he liked them or not.

“That was it?” Marcus asked, somewhat startled. 

“That was it. Should there have been more?” Neroon asked. “We knew that not everyone would be happy for us, Marcus. It was an honourable objection, based on reasonable logic and carried out within the proper framework of the courtship.”

“He could have killed me!” Marcus argued.

“He wouldn’t have,” Neroon assured him. “Any more than you would have killed him. Marcus, my people are reeling. We haven’t changed for a thousand years. Now in the space of two, Delenn has taken prophecy into her own hands and melded our people with yours, the Del’Saezha has been broken, Valen’s peace crumbled, civil war almost destroyed our capital city, the Del’Saezha has been reformed but altered, and – and this is perhaps the most important – we no longer have a leader. Dukhat was the greatest of us, but before him there was another, and another, and another, on back unto Valen himself. We have never learned to function without that guidance, without someone telling us when it is all right to change, and why, and in what direction. We are now learning how to step beyond our limitations, as a race, and think for ourselves. It is uncomfortable, and there will be growing pains like this.”

“I guess I just didn’t expect violent opposition to our marriage,” Marcus admitted. “Not after the way the Elders and the Council approved it.”

“The Elders and the Council are tired of fighting. They have been fighting each other and everyone else for so long, they do not have the energy to fight such a small thing as this. The recent troubles have been hardest on them. They are the ones who, after it is all over, must question their decisions and their orders. Also, they are better informed about the universe. You know that on Minbar, one is often not told anything until one needs to know?”

Marcus snorted. “I’d forgotten that. I think it ranks up there with ‘understanding is not required’ for my least favourite Minbari philosophy of all time.”

Neroon chuckled at that. “After hearing some of your stories, I would have to agree. But then, I have always been a leader. You can perhaps understand why that philosophy has worked for the majority of our people, and if it is to change now, it must change slowly. My people’s eyes have been opened in shock and they are trying to learn, but too many new ways and new ideas will only close those eyes again forever. Our leaders know, as many of my people do not, why we surrendered to the humans. They know about Delenn. They know about Valen, to some extent. It does not surprise them so much, that I would choose you. But to the average Minbari we are about as likely – and as socially acceptable – as a Centauri choosing a Narn.”

Marcus smiled at that mental image. “I understand. I shall simply have to work at spreading information and understanding quietly.” He grinned suddenly. “And you know, the unexpected is more common than you think. Just look at Londo and G’Kar.”

Neroon gave him a horrified look, and packed him off to bed. Obviously, Marcus was suffering some as yet undiscovered mental failing. Hopefully it wasn’t contagious.

***

Marcus was called away the next day on Ranger business. When he sent word some days later that he was returning, Neroon carefully prepared for the next ritual. Nothing in Marcus’ brief message could have prepared him for the state the Ranger returned in, though.

“What happened?” Neroon asked as soon as Marcus made it through the door of his quarters. He’d intended to meet the human at the gates to the estate, but had been kept late in a meeting.

“I,” Marcus began, and then didn’t seem capable of getting anything else out. He appeared uninjured, but his eyes were nearly dead and haunted by ghosts Neroon had only begun to guess at.

“Sit!” Neroon ordered, and set about making up the last of the hot chocolate he had bartered from the Anla’Shok. Marcus nodded at him gratefully, but simply held the cup, staring into it numbly as if the answers to the universe could be found in its depths.

“Marcus, please,” Neroon began gently, “What has happened? Are you hurt?”

That at least made Marcus look up. “No. No, I’m quite well. I’m only distressed by some dreadful news I’ve just received.” He snorted briefly to himself. “And now I’m quoting Victorian romance novels.” He shook his head to clear it. 

Neroon waited a moment, to see if any further explanation would be forthcoming. It wasn’t. “And?” he prompted.

Marcus finally looked at him and actually focused. “Oh Neroon,” he whispered brokenly. “The fleet reached Mars two days ago, heading on to earth. But Susan… her White Star was hit, badly.”

Neroon knew what the human Commander had once meant to Marcus. “Is she hurt?”

Marcus shook his head. “Not badly. She’ll be a few weeks in medlab, but no worse than I’ve been hurt numerous times myself.” He fell silent again.

“Then what?” Neroon asked, as patiently as he could.

“Corwin. Lieutenant David Corwin. He loved her… he thought we were rivals, but we eventually became friends. Hard not to, when you’re on the sidelines of the important stuff all the time, thrown together like that. We used to spar, sometimes. Have a drink and commiserate on the utter insanity of the universe.” Marcus’ eyes held all the disbelief of a child when first told the universe isn’t fair. “He pushed her out of the way…”

Neroon could fill the rest in for himself. “Oh Marcus,” he murmured, gathering his ma’fela close and rocking him slightly, the way he’d seen Marcus do to Fara when she had a nightmare. He didn’t know what the motion was based on, but Marcus seemed to find it soothing.

“All he ever wanted was to love her,” Marcus gasped, finally free to react to the news. “And she never knew. Never saw him. At least she saw me; if I had been there, had been able to save her, at least maybe she’d have mourned.”

Neroon held him tighter. “I am selfishly glad you were not,” he said. “My life would be a great deal emptier without you in it.”

Marcus buried his face in Neroon’s shoulder. “When I was in the Trial of Shadow,” he said softly, “I saw the future if we hadn’t decided to court. And it was me; I died, saving her life. I was so glad other aspects of that future hadn’t come true that I never paused to think that with me not there, either she would die, or someone else would die, instead of me.”

Neroon recognized that tone of voice from infrequent conversations about Arisia. “Stop,” he ordered, as gently as he could. “You are not responsible for his death. And if he was your friend, he would not want you to feel as though you were.”

Marcus shook his head silently.

“It is true, love,” Neroon assured him. He would keep assuring him for as long as it took for the message to sink in. “If he loved her, then he would always put himself in harm’s way for her. That was his choice, and his right. He was a Warrior.”

Marcus made no reply, and Neroon decided that was enough. When Marcus’ soul was scabbed over a bit, then would be the time to get the details of the battle. He had heard through the interstellar news broadcasts of Sheridan’s victory and the pending formation of this new Interstellar Alliance that Delenn had been championing, but it could all wait. He was sure that Marcus, with his numerous contacts throughout inhabited space, would have more detailed information than he could get anywhere else.

For now, it was enough that he was home safe, in Neroon’s arms. Neroon would give him time to heal; he was no stranger to the loss of friends. No Warrior was. When Marcus had healed, perhaps they would go to Babylon 5 and honour the young man. 

He waited until Marcus had fallen asleep on his shoulder, before carrying him into his bedroom. He carefully removed his cloak, belt, and boots, before climbing into the bed beside him. The next ritual they were to complete was the First Night, in which they proved their trust in each other by sleeping quietly in the same bed, and proved everyone else’s trust in them by not giving in to temptation so close to the end of the courtship. Marcus didn’t know about the ritual, and at that moment Neroon didn’t remember it. All that mattered was that the man he loved not be alone to suffer through this; all else could be dealt with later.

***

Neroon’s mother met her son in the garden the next morning. He’d left Marcus with Fara and some of the other children, hoping that their daughter might help cheer him up a bit. She was an unusually sensitive child, especially where her human parent was concerned; Neroon was sure she’d notice Marcus’ mood and attempt to lighten it.

“You got through your first night without trouble, then?” Ardminn winked at her son, then sobered seeing his expression. “Or did you?”

“I forgot about the ritual entirely, although we did spend the night together,” Neroon admitted. “A friend of Marcus’ was killed in the fighting over his homeworld.”

“Ah.” Ardminn had been living among Warriors long enough to be used to such occurrences. “Our prayers are with him, then. Perhaps it is best if we postpone the rest of the rituals for some days?”

Neroon nodded. “Perhaps. I am thinking of taking him to Babylon 5 for the funeral, and to see his friends. I didn’t realize until last night, but it has been eight or nine months now since he has seen anyone he knows outside of the Anla’Shok at the training facility, Lennier, and two brief and tense visits with Delenn. I took him from everything he knew and all the people he loved, and I did not even notice.”

Ardminn gave him a searching look. “Was he unhappy? I do not think he was. I think he was glad to be here, and glad to be among us. Do not punish yourself unnecessarily. I think your Marcus is a man who is used to going long periods of time without seeing those he calls friend. He keeps in contact with them, and sees them when their paths cross, and he has never expressed any regrets about such a life that I have heard. But you are right; it would be good for him to say goodbye to a friend. When will you leave?”

“Tomorrow,” Neroon said. “I would like to take Lennier and Helacann as well; I do not know if Lennier knew the young man who died, but Marcus could use the support.”

“Lennier has been long away from Babylon 5 as well,” Ardminn observed. “I am sure he left friends there, as Marcus did. We will await your return.”

Neroon nodded. “Thank you, mother. I will go tell them.”

“Take your daughter with you,” Ardminn called, before he was entirely out of hearing. “It’ll do them both good!”

Neroon took her advice, and early the next morning the five of them were aboard a transport bound for Babylon 5. Neroon had pondered recalling the Ingata to pick them up, but in the end decided against it. The warship wasn’t really his to command anymore, and although Hedronn and his old command crew would certainly answer any summons he gave, he would feel wrong being aboard and not in control. Perhaps, after they were married, he would request another ship, and take any of his old crew who would come on further patrols. He could certainly never command the Ingata again as long as she remained the flagship, but a smaller cruiser might do. But for now, his family came first.

Marcus was withdrawn during the journey from the estate to the nearest spaceport, and then for the shuttle ride up to the transport ship. Lennier seemed none too thrilled about the venture either, but Fara’s enthusiasm more than made up for them.

“We’re really gonna see Babylon 5?” she babbled, squirming in her seat. Neroon was going to have to confine her to their quarters once aboard the transport, or she’d drive the other passengers to distraction.

“We’re really going to Babylon 5, yes,” he confirmed, smiling slightly at her excitement.

“I heared they have a hundred species!” Fara enthused.

“More than a hundred,” Lennier assured her, shaking off his mood and smiling down at her.

Fara’s eyes grew wide. “More than a hundred?” she squeaked. Neroon didn’t think she could quite comprehend more than a hundred of anything, but he let it go. 

“Yes,” Lennier confirmed. “And they’re all very interesting. I remember once when I was talking to the aide to the Gaim ambassador,” and he was off, Fara hanging on his every word as he related the more amusing and less politically sensitive stories of his time serving as Delenn’s aide aboard the station.

Neroon chuckled, and turned his attention to his ma’fela. “How are you?”

Marcus shook his head. “I can’t stop blaming myself, even though I know it’s ridiculous. And I don’t know how I’m going to face Susan.”

“Worry about it when the time comes, yes?” Neroon suggested, and wrapped an arm around the human’s shoulders. Luckily, they had the shuttle to themselves; for a Minbari, the gesture was more intimate than it was really appropriate to get in public.

The ship was quick and efficient, transporting a varied mix of diplomats, couriers, tourists, and travellers first from Minbar to Babylon 5 and then to points beyond. Fara quickly had the crew and several of the passengers wrapped around her small fingers, despite Neroon’s mild worry at having such an outgoing child – Minbari children in general were quiet. Although he hadn’t been, and nor had Delenn… it appeared his adopted daughter also possessed the peculiar genetic quirk that made a small number of Minbari into leaders and world-changers, while most never looked beyond the roles life handed them. Well. That was all to the good; she would make a fine matriarch one day, if she chose the path of a Warrior.

“You’re proud of her,” Marcus observed, sitting down beside him in the ship’s common area. Fara was on the floor with a couple of other children, engaged in a strange game that seemed to have elements drawn from several different worlds. He was fairly sure they’d made it up on the spot.

“I am,” Neroon agreed. “She is so much like I was at her age, it’s almost frightening. She could be my daughter, Marcus.” A squeal of laughter and a very human tickle-fight arose, and Neroon hastily modified his opinion. “Our daughter.”

“Oh sure, blame me!” Marcus cried, pretending to be offended. He sobered again quickly. “Have I thanked you for this?” he asked.

“I require no thanks, Marcus.”

“Nevertheless,” Marcus countered, “Thank you. I’m sorry I’ve been poor company.”

“I sent word to Babylon 5,” Neroon informed him, nodding his acceptance of the apology as he did so. “They said your friends would meet us at the docking bay.”

Marcus actually smiled at that. “I look forward to it.”

“Lennier does not seem happy to be returning. I thought he would be; it is why I issued the invitation.” Neroon was concerned for the young priest.

“Lennier… cannot return to Babylon 5 without being reminded of what almost was,” Marcus said after a moment to find the right words. 

“What almost was?” Neroon asked, then shook his head. “Forgive me. It is none of my business.”

“I’m surprised you hadn’t guessed already, actually,” Marcus replied. “It’s not secret, or at least, not a very good one. Most of the command staff knew, although no one ever spoke of it. Lennier admires Delenn a great deal. Worships her, in a way. And when he first came to Babylon 5 he was very young – just out of school, as I understand it. And she was older, wiser, a member of the Grey Council. And beautiful, by anyone’s standards. Honourable, and kind to a confused boy who’d never been out of the temple. And she had lived among humans for long enough at that point that she had begun picking up some of our more casual habits; she saw nothing of walking about arm in arm with her aide, while he -”

“Say no more,” Neroon requested. “You need not finish, I understand perfectly. I am sorry I forced him to come with us, and at the same time more happy for his marriage than I already was. Those who can find a happy ending after such a beginning are fortunate indeed.”

“I believe he knows that,” Marcus smiled. “As to coming with us, I think that’s the best thing for him. I think he needs to walk the halls of Babylon 5 as who he is now, to put it behind him for good.”

Neroon shrugged. “That is a remedy I had never considered, but perhaps you are right.”

They were interrupted by their daughter, who bounced over to drag them into the game as ‘monsters’. Their task, it appeared, was to growl menacingly and threaten to gobble up anyone they caught up with. It kept them busy for quite some time, and afterwards several other sets of parents invited them to dinner in gratitude. Neroon accepted, happy to see the spark back in Marcus’ eyes as his guilt and shock receded a bit in the face of such vibrant life. 

They docked with Babylon 5 four days later. Marcus by that time was a great favourite with all the children, and he clearly adored them even on short acquaintance. Neroon, who was not at all good with children who weren’t Minbari, could only marvel at his ability to engage a group containing small representatives of a dozen races. He vowed silently to himself that if he could manage it, Fara would have as many brothers and sisters as could be reasonably accommodated, just so Neroon would never have to see Marcus sad again.

They joined the queue to enter the station, but were waved to a different and much shorter line when the security staff realized who they were. Lennier was recognized first, and met with enthusiastic welcomes from everyone they passed. The young priest looked quite overwhelmed, and Helacann kept a proprietary steadying hand at his new husband’s back as they navigated customs. Marcus was greeted with almost the same enthusiasm, especially when people caught sight of his pint-sized passenger; Fara had chosen to ride in on his shoulders so she could see better. Neroon had been rejected on the grounds of his uniform being too bumpy.

They cleared the security area quickly and were met by the human command staff, several of the ambassadors, and the newly-elected President of the Interstellar Alliance himself. Neroon hung back slightly as they swarmed Marcus and Lennier, everyone trying to talk at once as they shared news of the past several months. It seemed any number of humorous incidents hadn’t been deemed important enough to include in the frequent messages sent back and forth, and the entire groups was soon convulsed in laughter, heading through the station to guest quarters in the diplomatic wing. Far better quarters, Neroon noted, than Marcus had inhabited during his posting here. 

He and Marcus were assigned a suite with two rooms, which Fara immediately set about exploring – after laying claim to one of the beds, of course. Marcus turned to Neroon after their friends had left, eliciting a promise of dinner together that night, and more catching up in the morning before the official business started. 

“I’ll take the couch,” Marcus offered. 

“Why?” Neroon wondered, slightly confused. “Is there a problem with the bed?”

Marcus blushed. “No, but we’re not married yet.”

“Marcus, we have shared a bed already. It is quite proper now that we continue to do so,” Neroon informed him.

“It may be proper,” Marcus countered, “But I’m not sure it’s wise.”

Neroon’s eyes widened, and he smiled, tugging Marcus close to him. “Do I tempt you?” he asked, exerting just enough pressure to move Marcus a few steps back and pin him against the wall.

Marcus’ breathing was substantially heavier than usual when he finally managed to reply. “Yes, frankly,” he said, then reached up for Neroon’s bonecrest and wove his fingers into the spikes to hold his fiance’s head in place.

“Ewwwww!” a shrill yelp interrupted them some minutes later. “Papa! Marcus!”

Marcus sighed, breaking off the kiss and dropping his head onto Neroon’s shoulder. “You’re right. Sharing a room is best. Especially if it puts a door between us and the peanut gallery over there.”

“Two doors, even,” Neroon agreed, then went to help their daughter unpack before they went to go visit some of Marcus’ old favourite haunts before they met the others for dinner.

The military funeral the next afternoon was solemn and full of ceremony, and Neroon heartily approved. It was a fine way to honour fallen Warriors. All in attendance wore either dress uniforms or their best civilian clothing - more of the latter, amongst those who had served on Babylon 5 for quite some time and were no longer considered a true part of EarthForce. Marcus stood with him near several other Rangers and some diverse aliens who had a reason to mourn one of those who had perished in the earth civil war.

By contrast, the officer's wake they held for Corwin later that evening was positively rowdy. Marcus advised the three Minbari to avoid drinking anything they didn't see made, as there was quite a large amount of alcohol floating the crowd. The people invited to this more intimate gathering had served together for years, off and on; they were the heart and soul of Babylon 5. And at this moment they were, one and all, intent on getting completely sloshed in honour of the end of the war and in memory of those who would not drink with them again.

Marcus managed to corner Susan by the drinks table after they’d both had a few. "How are you?" he asked.

"Oh, you know," Susan answered in the flippant manner of someone who isn't really dealing well with life, but doesn't want to admit it. "Same old same old. You?"

Marcus shrugged. "Quite well. Winter's almost over on Minbar, so we're getting ready to chase Fara around once she figures out that she can run off outside."

Susan smiled at that. "She's a great kid, Marcus. I'm happy for you."

"Really?" Marcus asked. "I mean, I know she's wonderful, but you don't mind, about Neroon and I?"

Susan shook her head. "Maybe in another life," she offered, "Maybe we'd have, I don't know, boffed like bunnies and had ten kids."

"Boffed?" Marcus asked, incredulous.

Susan shrugged. "It's the sort of thing you'd say."

"Well, yes, but I didn't expect you to." Marcus sighed. "It's better this way, believe me."

"You sound like you know that for a fact," Susan half-asked.

"I do," Marcus muttered. "I can't tell you where or why or how, but I was shown what would have happened if I'd stayed here... we wouldn't have ended well. It should have been me, not David."

Susan glared at him. "Don't!" she snapped. "I've spent so much of my life thinking that if I'd just done something differently somewhere, people I cared about would still be alive! And it's never saved any of them, Marcus! You chose to follow your heart, and that's all you’re responsible for. Other people make their own decisions."

Marcus shrugged. "Neroon said that too."

"Well, he's right," Susan snapped. "God, I never thought I'd be saying that. But he is. This wasn't your fault and you couldn't have done anything to prevent it. It's enough of a tragedy without you adding guilt to the mix."

"Lord, we're a pair, aren't we?" Marcus chuckled after a moment spent chewing on that. "Think we could start our own franchise? Guilt-R-Us? It could be as big as that bloody toy seller ever was."

Susan snorted. "Don't make me hit you."

"Neroon would protect me," Marcus told her smugly. 

"From what I've heard, he'd just hit you for me," Susan retorted. "Delenn claims that you spend half your time sparring."

"He's Warrior Caste," Marcus defended. "What do you expect? Besides, it's fun."

"Don't tell me!" Susan begged. "I don't want the details!"

"You secretly wish you had a Minbari love slave," Marcus taunted. "Don't deny it."

Susan stared at him. "Minbari love slave?" she asked incredulously. "That's it, we're cutting you off the punch. You're clearly delusional."

"He loved you, you know," Marcus changed the subject before his brain quite caught up with his mouth.

"Who?" Susan asked. "Neroon?"

"No, David. Lieutenant Corwin."

Susan blanched a bit, and shook her head. "He didn't. He was protecting his commanding officer. He died a hero."

"Yes," Marcus agreed, "But he was also protecting the woman he loved. Those roses you threw at me in the Zocalo once? I didn't give them to you. He did."

"How do you know this?" Susan asked, eyes wide.

"I'm a Ranger. I'm paid to figure out secrets," Marcus told her. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything."

"No," Susan disagreed absently. "No, I'd rather know... will you excuse me?" she wandered off, looking a bit shocked, and Marcus was drawn into conversation with G'kar, Londo, and Stephen. It was nicer than he'd realized it would be, to have old friends surrounding him again.

"Marcus seems happy," Delenn observed quietly to Neroon from their corner watching the proceedings. Neither of them felt like they really belonged there, since they hadn’t known the young lieutenant as anything more than a face in the crowd.

Neroon nodded. "I'm glad we came. I think he missed this place more than he realized."

"What ritual have you reached?" Delenn asked him. "I apologize, that was terribly blunt."

"You become more human by the day, Delenn," Neroon informed her. His tone for once wasn't terribly critical of that fact. "We have reached the 45th ritual, the affirmation of vows."

Delenn nodded. "It is the same for all three Castes. I know it. Would you," she paused to find words. "Would you do us the honour of completing it here? Marcus' friends have not been party to any of the courtship. I believe it would ease their minds to see some of it. I do not know if your Clan had already made plans..."

Neroon shook his head. "We had, but plans can be changed. My mother would never object to holding the ritual here among Marcus' family. If you or Lennier can administer the vows, I will ask Helacann to stand witness for my Clan. He is a distant cousin, but it is close enough for this."

"Thank you," Delenn bowed slightly. "It will mean much to his friends." She paused. "There is another favour I would ask, while you are here."

"Name it, and I will see what is within my power," Neroon promised. 

"John and I will be married in a human ceremony in three days. It is evidently traditional for the woman to be 'given away' by a male relative... none of my Clan will come, and I would not like to make Lennier uncomfortable. You were once my brother in the Satai; will you act as my brother in this?"

Neroon stared at her. "I would be honoured," he finally managed, bowing low. "I never expected such a request, given our old rivalry."

Delenn shook her head. "We send all of our children who have the ability to be more than followers to the same school, to learn politics and government and leadership, because there are few enough of us who are able to serve in that capacity that it is practical to do so. And then we wonder why, with so many bright, forceful, opinionated children in one area, rivalries form. It would be better for our people if those of us who are born to lead them were not set up in competition with each other at such a young age."

Neroon nodded. "I believe that on that, we may agree. I am having Fara schooled at home with the children of my Clan. What extra tutelage she will need to be an Alyt – or whatever else her heart calls her to – I will give her myself. Perhaps she will do better than we have at building understanding and friendship with those outside her direct circle."

Delenn smiled. "She could hardly do worse."

Neroon bowed his acknowledgement. "When will be best for the ritual?" 

Delenn shrugged. "I will speak to John; he knows the schedules of all the station personnel better than I do. Perhaps tomorrow, or the night after."

It ended up being the night after when most of those who had gathered for Corwin's wake gathered again in the little temple that Marcus had preferred to worship in while on the station. Delenn stood behind the altar, and for once Marcus' side of the room was crowded with witnesses while Neroon had only Helacann beside him. And Fara, but it was rather late and she’d evidently decided that whatever was to come was less important than sleep; she was curled up in one of the pews, dead to the world. 

Marcus hadn't said anything, but there was a kind of wondering gratitude hidden deep in his eyes that made Neroon feel like he'd given his ma'fela the world instead of a simple ceremony in front of his friends. G'Kar and Londo even managed not to snipe at each other, a small miracle by anyone's standards. Londo looked troubled; Neroon wondered if he was ill. Lennier and Londo's aide stood nearby. Neroon had been at first startled then amused by the friendship the two young attaches had. He didn't think Helacann was as amused, at least initially. Hopefully his secretary had more sense than to be jealous of such a thing. Sheridan, Ivanova, Garibaldi, Mr. Allen, and a few people Neroon didn't recognize rounded out the crowd.

"Before we begin," Delenn said when they were all more or less in position, "I would like to explain what is about to occur. Marcus and Neroon have reached the forty-fifth ritual of their courtship, the confirmation of their vows to each other. I will be conducting the ritual in standard, so that all may understand. There will be points where you are all asked to respond; the correct response is 'we will'."

Everyone indicated their understanding, and Delenn turned to Marcus and Neroon. “We gather in this place to affirm the vows of Marcus Cole, Anla’Shok born of Earth and Arisia, and Neroon of the Star Riders Clan, born of the Warrior Caste of Minbar. May the universe also hear, and remember.”

Marcus expected the ritual to go mostly the same as their earlier vows had, with a few added details and responses that he’d memorized, but it appeared that there was more to this one. Delenn continued by striking a small bell laid on the table, which Marcus understood from long talks with Ardminn to symbolize calling for the attention of the universe to whatever was going on.

“Marcus Cole,” Delenn continued. “You have sworn to be shield and guard to Neroon, to protect him when he is unable to protect himself, to support him and bear him up. If you are sure of this path, speak now.”

“I so vowed, and I remain sure,” Marcus said. He hoped the words were right. The book he’d gotten them from hadn’t exactly come with a standard translation attached.

Delenn looked past him to his friends. “You are the Clan of Marcus Cole, chosen rather than born. Will you support him, and add your strength to his as you are able, even though he leaves your Clan for another?”

“We will,” they chorused. Marcus felt a lump forming in his throat. He hadn’t thought it would mean so much to him, to have the support of those he considered closer friends than any he’d had in his life.

Delenn turned to Neroon, and repeated her question. Neroon’s response was identical to Marcus’, and Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. Either he’d translated it right, or Neroon was taking pity on him and using his version anyway. He didn’t suppose it mattered.

Delenn turned to Helacann. “You are of the Star Riders Clan, and family to Neroon. Will you support him, and raise your pike in defence of the one who comes to your Clan through him? Will you swear this, on behalf of all your Clan?”

“I will,” Helacann swore proudly. And at that moment, Marcus understood that no matter what individual Star Riders thought of him, they were now all bound by the promise Helacann had just made; he would always be defended, even if he couldn’t defend himself, as long as there was a Star Rider alive to come for him.

It was an awe-inspiring feeling. It distracted him through Delenn ringing the bell again, and pouring water into a crystal cup that he’d wondered about the purpose of.

“Marcus Cole, you have sworn to continue at Neroon’s side, through good and ill, through death and rebirth, until you meet again in a place where no shadows fall. Is this still the wish of your heart?”

Marcus shifted slightly to smile into Neroon’s eyes. “Whither thou goest, I will go,” he swore once again, and this time he knew that most of those watching knew the power of his words. “It is the greatest wish of my heart.”

Delenn smiled, and turned again to his friends. “You are the Clan of Marcus Cole, who have already given up his responsibilities to you so that he may follow the path of his heart. Will you swear to allow him to walk that path freely, with no conditions placed upon him?”

“We will,” the chorused again. Marcus heard a sniffle, and cast a surreptitious glance backwards. It appeared the emotion of the situation was more than G’kar could handle stoically.

“Neroon of the Star Riders Clan, you have sworn to continue at Marcus’ side, through good and ill, through death and rebirth, until you meet again in a place where no shadows fall. Is this still the wish of your heart?”

Neroon lifted Marcus’ left hand and brushed a delicate kiss over the ring he’d placed there some months ago. “It is the dearest wish of my heart,” he confirmed easily.

“Helacann of the Star Riders, you speak for Neroon’s Clan. Will you accept the calling of his heart and aid the one he brings to your Clan, so that he may follow your ways and walk always by Neroon’s side?”

Helacann nodded. “I will,” he swore, and through him the Star Riders Clan.

Delenn offered them the cup. “Drink of the water, which gives us life. As you share water, so now you will share life.”

Marcus took the cup first at Neroon’s urging, and sipped lightly. Neroon’s hand brushed his when they exchanged the cup so he could drink as well, and when they returned it to the altar, their hands remained linked.

Delenn rang the bell again, then removed a tiny – and wickedly sharp – Minbari-style knife from her robes. This, Marcus knew, was a part of the ritual specific to the Warrior Caste, since no other Caste spoke the vows of vengeance.

“Marcus Cole, you have sworn to take Neroon’s enemies as your own, to fight his battles as if they were yours, and to avenge wrongs done to him as if they were done to you. Will you fight these battles with honour?”

Marcus nodded. “I will,” he swore, then smirked slightly. “Even to protect him from his own pigheadedness, if I have to.” Several of his friends chuckled at that; possibly it was the idea of Marcus calling someone else pigheaded that amused them. He couldn’t imagine why that would be.

Delenn smiled, but continued. “You are the Clan of Marcus Cole. Will you stand beside him in these battles if he should ask it of you, trusting the rightness of his cause?”

“We will,” they answered again.

“Neroon of the Star Riders Clan, you have sworn to take Marcus’ enemies as your own, to fight his battles and to avenge his wrongs. Will you fight these battles with honour?”

Neroon nodded as well. “I will.”

“Helacann of the Star Riders, will your Clan support Neroon in these battles, trusting to the rightness of his cause, even though he fights on behalf of one not of your Caste?”

Helacann bowed slightly. “We will,” he swore. “If Warriors fought only for their Caste, Minbar would have perished long ago. We fight as we always have, in service of life, and we trust that if Neroon should call, his cause will be just.”

Delenn bowed her acknowledgement, then took up the knife, offering it to Neroon. “The blood of a Warrior is never spilled lightly. One drop of your ma’fela, spilled now, so that you understand how precious it is. One drop of your own, so that he understands the same. Two drops mingled, as your lives are now mingled, as your battles are now mingled.”

Neroon took the knife from her and made a shallow cut in Marcus’ palm, dripping one drop of blood carefully onto a small crystal dish set on the altar for just this purpose. He kissed the wound when he was done before wrapping it in a small band of linen laid on the side of the altar. The binding was entirely symbolic; the cut was small enough that it wouldn’t even bleed further without provocation.

Marcus took the knife from him when he was finished and mirrored his actions carefully. When Neroon’s palm had been wrapped and the knife cleaned and returned to the altar, Delenn took a small crystal rod and mingled their blood, then touched it with the flame of a candle to seal it together. When she was finished, she rang the bell again.

“All here have heard Marcus Cole and Neroon of the Star Riders confirm their vows to each other. All here who are of their Clans have sworn to honour and uphold those vows. Let the universe also have heard. Let the universe also remember.” She struck the bell one final time, then relaxed, transforming from the Priestess Delenn of Mir, daughter of the temple family of the Religious Caste, back into simple Delenn.

“Thank you for coming,” Marcus said when he was sure the ritual was complete. “It means a lot to us.”

“We wouldn’t have missed it,” Sheridan promised, offering his hand in congratulations. Marcus shook it gladly. 

“Same here,” Garibaldi put in. “And hey, if you ever need someone to walk you down the aisle when you finally tie the knot…”

Marcus growled, and Neroon laughed, and they took an all-too rare moment to savour a gathering of friends in a time of peace.

The wedding of Delenn and John Sheridan the next day was almost plain in comparison to the elaborate Minbari ritual. Many of the attendees – particularly the Minbari – were shocked to see Neroon escorting his old rival up the aisle in a wedding dress that mingled Minbari and human styles quite flatteringly. Lennier was notable for his absence, and Delenn seemed both sad and resigned over that. She knew, as well as Lennier did, just how narrowly they had avoided the ultimate tragedy of their people. She also knew that, however much Lennier now loved Helacann – and he did – it would always be painful for him to face her. 

The wedding ceremony itself went off quietly and with a great deal of dignity, as befitted the wedding of a President and Ambassador. The party afterward, however, was enlivened by thrown rice and confetti, commentary from G’Kar and Londo, Fara’s first introduction to overly-sugared human candy, and some speeches that probably shouldn’t have happened. Marcus was forced to agree with the Centuari ambassador; human wedding celebrations were decidedly odd.

Too few days after that, they were on another shuttle bound for Minbar. Fara had exhausted herself exploring Babylon 5 and was curled up comfortably between her fathers, who were relieved that she’d probably sleep the entire way home. A general air of contentment overlaid their party; Lennier seemed more at peace than he had been even during his time at the Star Riders estate, Helacann was obviously happy with a lessening of his husband’s demons, and Marcus was relaxed and smiling over several days spent listening to the minutiae of his friend’s lives. 

Yes, Neroon reflected, the trip to Babylon 5 had been a very good idea indeed.

***

They met a few days later in one of the smaller training rooms on the estate to conduct the next ritual. They would be sparring together for the fourth time, and this time it would be entirely private. Afterwards, they would move directly into the ritual following; the Shon’fal. Both men were more nervous and distracted than usual as they began warming up, stretching muscles that had bunched slightly during the long shuttle rides to and from Babylon 5.

“Are you ready?” Neroon asked after a few moments.

Marcus looked up at his fiancé. He wanted to commit this moment to memory; Neroon looked even more magnificent than usual. Barefoot and dressed in the loose black workout clothes of the Warrior Caste, similar to the cream-coloured garments he’d worn in training as a Ranger, Neroon looked both fierce and deeply attractive. His dark eyes were eager, and the practice denn’bok was held surely to his side. 

Neroon for his part could scarcely take his yes off of Marcus; the human was always exotic to him, but somehow the same loose workout clothes that looked so plain on the Warriors he was accustomed to sparring with gave Marcus an almost liquid sensuality. His wavy black hair and beard just made the pale skin of his face and surprising green of his eyes stand out even more, and Neroon wondered how he was going to make it through this ritual.

“When you are,” Marcus offered, flowing to his feet and taking up a ready stance at the center of the training ring. 

Neroon followed him, and they bowed over crossed weapons before moving to circle each other, Marcus in a defensive crouch, Neroon in a slightly more aggressive posture.

“You move like a hunting gok,” Neroon observed. “Have I ever told you that?”

Marcus chuckled. “No,” he said, eyes alight with the challenge as he blocked Neroon’s first strike easily, sliding along the side of his weapon and brushing closer than absolutely necessary to his fiancé as he disengaged. “But you’re more like a wolf.”

Then there was no more time or breath to spare for talk as the battle began in earnest. This was not a test of their skill; they knew they were evenly matched. It was at times fierce, at times acrobatic, at times almost like a dance as they spun around each other. Denn’bok clashed against denn’bok, and bodies crashed against the walls and floor as they both strove to gain the upper hand. And always there was an undercurrent running through the fight, of seduction and promise. It was in every brush of Marcus’ hair as he spun too close to Neroon, every caress of Neroon’s fingers as he tried to unbalance Marcus. 

The fight drew out, punctuated frequently by touches more often found in a bedroom. The air in the training room had warmed from more than exertion by the time they finally came to the end of the bout, a draw again. Marcus held his hands ready to snap Neroon’s neck, while the Warrior had the end of his pike pressed against Marcus’ ribcage directly over a lung. One shove with all his strength could easily kill the human.

“A draw again,” Marcus observed, shifting his hands to a slightly less deadly placement.

“Yes,” Neroon agreed, dropping his own weapon and setting his hands on Marcus’ hips. Their lips met in another kind of battle, and it was some minutes before a breathless Neroon could tear himself away to speak again.

“They will come for us to begin the Shon’fal any moment now,” he said.

“Let them,” Marcus answered, intent on exploring his fiance’s neck. He stopped just short of the incredibly sensitive area where the bonecrest met skin; a touch just under the edge of the crest was one of the most erotic gestures one could use on a Minbari. Marcus intended to make full use of it.

Neroon shuddered, sensing his intent, but was fortunately spared further torture by the arrival of Lennier and Ardiri, come to escort them to Neroon’s rooms. Their rooms, he should say, since after this night Marcus would be free to move into them permanently.

First, though, they had to survive tonight. The twinkle in their escorts’ eyes was not promising. They certainly couldn’t miss the way the two men were wrapped around each other, or the incredibly speaking glances they kept exchanging. If anyone ever transcribed those looks into a novel it would be one no child would be permitted to read, that much was certain. And yet somehow they had to contain the fire between them. The Shon’fal was not permitted to extend past an exploration of pleasure into actual sex, and while it often did, for Marcus and Neroon, there could be no alteration to the rules of the ritual.

Neroon didn’t know how he was going to survive this, but as he followed his ma’fela’s wicked smile into their bedroom, he knew he was going to enjoy trying.

***

The next morning, Marcus couldn’t help staring at Neroon as they ate breakfast. He was sure he was blushing like a schoolgirl, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Where had an Alyt of the Warrior Caste learned how to do some of those things? He couldn’t imagine they were common knowledge on Minbar, even if it was a lot easier to find out about human sexual habits than Minbari ones.

Neroon caught him staring several times, and they exchanged pleased, somewhat embarrassed smiles. Marcus felt a bit like he was floating, and he didn’t really want to rejoin reality, but it insisted on intruding in the person of Lennier.

“Pardon me,” he apologized, entering the room and avoiding their eyes. Marcus caught a suspicious smile lingering about his lips, and sighed. All right, maybe he had been slightly more vocal than a Minbari would have been, and some of the things he’d said probably deserved to have the piss taken out of them, but really. 

“Yes, Lennier?” Neroon asked after a moment, apparently still distracted.

“I thought you might like to know that the Marka’ri Minsa has decided to meet early this month. They’ll be meeting this afternoon instead of tomorrow, because of a scheduling conflict with one of the Worker Guilds.”

Neroon blinked, taking longer than usual to process that, then leaped up. “We should leave within the hour, then,” he stated.

“I’ve already prepared a shuttle,” Lennier offered. “Your family is standing by. All you need to do is dress and join us.”

Marcus waited until his friend had left the room before looking at Neroon. “The Marka’ri Minsa?” he asked pointedly.

“I was going to tell you today,” Neroon answered. “If they hadn’t moved the meeting, I’d have had time to prepare you. We have to present ourselves before them to declare our intent to marry.”

Marcus blinked. “Do all Minbari do this?” he’d never heard of the ritual before.

“No,” Neroon informed him. “Only members of what you might call our ruling class. High-ranking Dr’aals, some of the priests, and direct-line children of one of the Warrior Clans. Rarely, others are asked to.”

“Ah.” Marcus finished his toast quickly. “Full uniform will be needed, I suppose?”

Neroon nodded. “At the least, yes. As formal as possible.” 

Marcus took his hands and pulled him close. “I’ll go to my rooms to get dressed, then,” he told his fiancé, leaning in to kiss him lightly between words. “I left my uniforms there. Meet you at the shuttle?”

Neroon seemed reluctant to release him, but did after a few more stolen kisses. “Yes. Go. And Marcus?” he continued, just as the human reached the door.

“Yes?” Marcus asked, turning slightly.

“I love you. And I may not survive our wedding night.”

Marcus laughed, and left Neroon to finding his own uniform.

They met not quite an hour later at the shuttle Lennier had commandeered. Fara had been left with their profound apologies with the same family she’d stayed with the night before, and Aalann was of course already in Yed’oore for the meeting, but the rest of Neroon’s family, Lennier, and Helacann would be going with them. Everyone was dressed in their best, the metalwork on the Warrior’s uniforms glittering in the sun. Marcus just hoped they’d be able to avoid walking very far, since the piles of snow had given way to a kind of slushy, muddy mess that encourage the children to make slushpies and the adults to complain about laundry.

Several members of Neroon’s family were giving them amused looks as they lifted off, and Marcus flushed, hiding his face behind his hair as well as he could.

“You had a pleasant night?” Ardiri asked archly, grinning at her brother-in-law’s discomfiture.

“Most enlightening,” Neroon answered smugly, wrapping an arm around Marcus and pulling him possessively close.

Helacann chuckled. “You won’t win, Ardiri. You can’t embarrass him right now. Believe me, I know.”

Lennier flushed almost as red as Marcus, but said nothing, allowing his husband a moment to gloat.

Marcus caught his eye. “Star Riders,” he muttered, loud enough for all those sitting by to hear. His tone was one that most children on earth grew up using, usually when discussing the other gender. Marcus himself had used it as a child, when ‘girls’ had been almost an alien species.

Lennier chuckled. “Yes. Star Riders.”

Their particular Star Riders looked affronted, and Neroon chose the most expedient way of shutting Marcus up while the rest of his family laughed at their expense. 

Marcus certainly wasn’t complaining, and they passed an uneventful flight being as circumspect about their attachment as possible, given the situation. Which was to say, they refrained from outright snogging in front of Neroon’s parents. Nerlin just shook his head when Marcus leaned up for yet another lingering kiss, and jolted the shuttle slightly as he brought it in for a landing.

“We’re here,” he announced, trying very hard not to smile at his son’s current situation. It was difficult, though. He remembered all too well what the day after the Shon’fal was like; new sensations, and an entirely new way of looking at his beloved. He could hardly blame Neroon; he and Ardminn hadn’t actually surfaced from their bedroom until noon that day, and here his son was halfway across the planet preparing to face their government and it was only just approaching lunchtime.

Despite the change in time, the chambers of the Marka’ri Minsa were crowded with those who had business with the government. Petitioners, protesters, presenters, aides, and hangers-on of all varieties filled the room. Marcus was simply amazed by how quiet and efficient they all managed to be; a similar gathering of human governing representatives tended to involve, at the very least, raised voices.

In the past, it had been much more than that. Marcus knew for a fact that the mandatory distance between the governing party and the official opposition in any democratic house of representatives was two and a half sword lengths, to prevent outright bloodshed on the floor of parliament.

They were guided to the end of the row of petitioners, and instructed to wait. The Marka’ri Minsa would get to them in due time; they were assured an audience by the end of the day, but that was all. Marcus and Neroon curbed their teasing behaviour, acting as properly as if it was any normal day. The Minbari around them seemed somewhat surprised to see a human there, but didn’t ask questions. Either the uniform of the Rangers or the presence of the entire ruling family of the Star Riders Clan persuaded them that understanding was, in this case, most emphatically not required.

They didn’t have to wait until quite the end of the day, but it was still a long wait. They passed the time talking of inconsequentials, such as what to do with the gardens on the estate this year and how to organize some of the summer training sessions. Marcus caught Neroon giving him an odd look a few times, but shrugged it off. He was probably giving the other man a few strange glances himself, today. It had indeed been a most enlightening night.

Finally, their party was called. 

“Alyt Neroon of the Star Riders Clan and family, with Anla’Shok Marcus Cole of the Tuzan’oore training facility,” the herald called, and the ambient quiet chatter dropped another level as they entered the swift elevator and stepped out onto the speaker’s platform. It appeared most of those still in the room – and there were far more than Marcus was really comfortable having there – were quite interested to hear what had brought such a strange group here.

“You may speak,” the spokesperson for the Council told them. Today, it was one of the Religious Caste leaders. Marcus understood that all members of the Marka’ri Minsa took it in turn to speak for the entire group, so that no one person could ever twist the group’s decisions to their own ends.

“Honoured Council,” Neroon greeted them, bowing low. The rest of them followed suit.

“What brings you here, Alyt Neroon?” the spokesperson asked.

“For those of my rank and family background, one of the final rituals required of us before we marry is that we present our decision to do so to the Marka’ri Minsa,” Neroon informed them steadily. “I wish to do so.”

There was an immediate quiet hum of speculation among those gathered. Several of the Council members shot startled looks in Aalann’s direction, but she remained expressionless.

“I assume that you have completed all of the rituals required, in the proper order, before coming to us with this declaration?” the spokesperson asked.

“We have,” Neroon confirmed.

The spokesperson appeared to be waiting for him to say something further, and looked mildly disgruntled when he didn’t. “Alyt Neroon, it is customary to present us with the identity of the one you wish to marry. The entire purpose behind this ritual is to ensure that alliances and bloodlines of our great families remain secure.”

Neroon bowed his understanding. “On the matter of bloodlines, you may rest secure. My ma’fela is male. It is also my hope that, rather than strengthen old alliances that have no need of further tending, my choice will forge new ones.”

They waited for another moment, then Aalann interrupted the silence. “In Valen’s name, Neroon, you’re more dramatic sometimes than a teela singer,” she griped. “Get it over with.”

Neroon took a deep breath, and Marcus caught a hint of trepidation in his fiance’s eyes. It made him look again at the Minbari’s actions; Neroon wasn’t being dramatic on purpose. He wasn’t intending to draw the encounter out and offer cryptic hints. He simply was not sure what the reaction of his people would be, and was trying to buy time to find the best words.

Marcus knew better than most that right words seldom came, and never when you needed them. He took matters into his own hands, stepping slightly closer to Neroon and touching his hand briefly. In a human crowd the action wouldn’t even have been noticed. In a Minbari one it was as intimate as a passionate embrace, and brought dead silence to the council chambers.

“Marcus Cole is my ma’fela,” Neroon announced, meeting his eyes and nodding his thanks.

Silence reigned for another few seconds, then quietly organized pandemonium erupted. Emphatic arguments flew over their heads; some seemed to be in favour of the match and building alliances between the Rangers and the Warrior Caste. Others – a far greater number – were entirely opposed to the breaking of the Alien Prohibition. A small number seemed simply confused, and scattered lone voices rose in pleas for more information.

“Enough!” the spokesperson snapped, and grudging quiet descended once again. “Neroon, this is against the law. You must have gotten it past your family and Clan somehow, but it is against our laws.”

Neroon nodded. “Tell me, Spokesperson,” he began.

“Jenimer,” she interrupted him. “Of the Religious Caste.”

“Jenimer,” he bowed again in recognition of the introduction. “When our people made war on the humans ten cycles ago, why did we surrender at what they call the Battle of the Line?”

Jenimer shook her head. “I do not know,” she answered, but her eyes betrayed the truth. She knew. She knew what Neroon was about to reveal to all their people. 

“Then tell me, Jenimer of the Religious Caste, why the Clan Mir was permitted to invoke – wrongly invoke, at that – an ancient custom that allowed them to give their daughter Delenn in marriage to John Sheridan, by some of us still called Starkiller. Tell me why such a thing was necessary; why did they feel the need to conceal her marriage? So that others of our people would not know that the Alien Prohibition had already been broken?”

“Delenn of Mir is a special case,” Jenimer defended, but came under criticism from more than one corner of the room for that statement.

“The law binds us all,” Aalann objected loudly, “Or it is not the law. Why did the Religious Caste surrender to the humans? Why did the Religious Caste conceal the marriage of one of their own to a human? Are these things related, Jenimer?”

Jenimer looked at Neroon, then his aunt, then Neroon again, desperately. “Our people are not ready,” she began, but Nerlin had evidently heard enough.

“No,” he interrupted, stepping forward confidently and gaining the attention of every Minbari in the room. “You are wrong. You have always been wrong. Our people have been ready for this knowledge for quite some time. It is the Religious Caste who is not ready, who does not want their secrets challenged. It is the Religious Caste that does not want their power, to determine what Minbar knows and when and why, challenged. It is you who are afraid of what this truth will bring, not our people. 

“Our people are content to follow your leadership and live their lives for the good of all Minbari, and they ask in return only that you lead them honestly. The Marka’ri Minsa has not done that for a very long time. Instead you have kept things from them, forced them into ignorance as if they were children to be protected from the wilds of the universe. They are not. You have been given opportunities to change, many of them.

“If I may quote Ambassador Delenn when she stood on this spot and begged for an end to civil war, you are given a choice here and now to choose, for the Minbari to become something better than we have ever been before. The universe does not give such opportunities lightly or easily, and you have squandered several already. This may well be your last chance. Choose now, to share openly with all Minbari the things that you know, so that we may unite. Or choose to cling to your power and your secrets and watch the rift between the Castes continue, watch silence and misunderstanding and fear continue. Watch war continue. It is your choice.

“Our people are not stupid; many of them already begin to put the pieces of this puzzle together. Many of them have already reached the proper conclusions without your help. They are ready for this knowledge. They have fought and died because of this knowledge.”

“He is right,” Aalann agreed, standing to face the rest of the Council. “We have been silent long enough. All it has brought us is mistrust and anger between the Castes, when the truth could have united not only our world but the people of many worlds. I call for a vote. All in favour of revealing the truth to all our people, so that the Minbari may move forward from this day with the shadows of our past truly brought to light?”

To Marcus’ shock the overwhelming majority of the Council voted in favour of disclosure, entering their choices onto small data displays they each held in front of them. The herald called out the final tally, revealing that nearly ninety percent of the Marka’ri Minsa wanted their people to know the secrets that had been kept from them. The recording devices that captured everything that occurred in the council chambers were gone over, ensuring that the past several minutes had been saved adequately before beginning to record whatever was to come. Later that evening, and for many days following, the meeting would be broadcast all over the Minbari Federation. 

“Very well,” Jenimer bowed to the inevitable. “Ten cycles ago, our people faced the humans in the sky above their homeworld. The humans call this day the Battle of the Line. The Del’Saezha in their wisdom determined to interrogate one of the human pilots before the final assault was made on their world. He was brought aboard the Valen’tha, and it was there they discovered the most amazing – and the most horrible – thing that has been discovered by the Minbari in many centuries.

“We all know that for many generations now the Minbari soul has been diminished. There have been fewer of us born, and those born – with notable exceptions – are lesser than those who came before. Outsiders dismiss this as superstition, or Religious propaganda, but we know the truth. We Minbari rise and fall as one people now, where once we rose and fell as separate Clans. We know the strength of all, and we know the worth of all. This is not superstition to us. It is fact.

“On that day, aboard the Valen’tha, the Del’Saezha looked into the soul of a human and knew where part of our people now resided. They ordered a surrender to save as many of our people – whatever their physical form – as they could. Valen’s Ban had already been horribly broken, and in the aftermath, it was decided that such news could do our people no good.” Jenimer sighed. “That is all of the information I have. It is because of the weight of this secret that Delenn was given quietly and without comment to her human husband; given a choice between a minor, hidden illegality and the shock that revelations of this magnitude would give our people, the Clan Mir chose what they perceived as the lesser of two evils. Perhaps we were wrong, but we did what we believed was best.”

The silence in the council chambers was absolute; those who had know the story were silenced by the weight of a secret suddenly lifting off their shoulders, while those who had not were fighting for balance in a world that no longer made sense. Nerlin was the first to regain his metaphorical footing, and he stepped up to speak once again.

“We have always known that no one is ever reincarnated in the same form they have used before. One is never a Warrior twice, never a Priest twice, never a Carpenter twice. One may be male or female as the universe decrees. We are one people, unified because of this. Or at least, we should have been. Now you tell us that we may be reborn in forms strange to us, forms that are biologically dissimilar to our own, and those listening are shocked. Why? The form I wear now is not similar, in any meaningful way, to the form of a female of another Caste. And yet I go about my day without being troubled by this.

“Today, some of our people have learned that they are guilty of breaking Valen’s Ban long before civil war came to our world. For them, I grieve. I too am guilty of this, and my heart is heavy. But today all of our people have gained new kin to rejoice in and learn about. I submit to you that if the humans carry part of our collective soul, we must welcome them not as strangers but as family. Some of the humans are not of our people, but some are. And those that are, those that chose to live among us – such as the Anla’Shok – or work among us, or even those who remain among the humans living good and honourable lives, should be given the same rights as any Minbari. 

“If Valen’s Ban applies to these humans, then the Alien Prohibition cannot, for they are Minbari. Valen said that the one who followed him would bring renewal disguised as defeat. We have been offered that renewal in our defeat above the human homeworld. Let us seize it, and be reborn united,” Nerlin finished passionately, and was met by a slightly confused but fairly enthusiastic cheer.

“Well spoken,” Aalann congratulated her nephew. “What do you say, Jenimer? You speak for us all today.”

Jenimer looked troubled, but gave in to the inevitable. “Nerlin of the Star Riders speaks with great wisdom,” she decided. “I implore the Minbari to hear his words, and reflect on them. Our understanding of the universe and our place in it has changed today. In recognition of that, the Marka’ri Minsa agrees with Nerlin’s proposition. We hope that the Del’Saezha will ratify this decision, but it is an internal matter and thus not under their jurisdiction. It is the decision of this body that where Valen’s Ban applies, the Alien Prohibition does not.”

She looked directly at Neroon, and seemed almost to smile. “Congratulations, Neroon of the Star Riders. May yours be among the first steps that show the path to acceptance of our new understanding. A declaration of your intent to marry will be filed with the library at Yed’oore, to be signed by the witnesses when the ceremonies are concluded.”

They bowed and made their way as unobtrusively as they could out of the council chambers. The debate in there would probably last long into the night, if it even ended that day, but their part in it was done.

“How does it feel to make history?” Marcus asked his fiancé as they stood on the top step of the building that held the council rooms.

“I have been a part of history many times, Marcus,” Neroon reminded him, looking out over the beautiful city. Scaffolding was everywhere, and the Worker Caste was labouring mightily to restore the place to its former glory. Still, it would be a long time before all reminders of conflict were gone from the walls. “But this is the first time I have felt proud because of it.”

Marcus smiled. “Good,” he said simply, and they walked down the steps together into a changed Minbar.

***

After the uproar before the Marka’ri Minsa, Marcus had expected to be in the public eye. Anyone who caused such a stir on a human world would have been the focus of media attention and unwelcome intrusions for weeks at least. But for the Minbari, the focus remained on the deliberations of the Council and the leaders of each Caste, with very little said about public reaction. What could they say? The leaders of the Castes, the Marka’ri Minsa, and the Del’Saezha had all united for the first time in their history and agreed on an issue. The Minbari people had to believe that their decision was right. There would be no argument, no outcry, no revolution. Just the wheels of change turning quietly over the next few weeks, until the new worldview had slotted into every aspect of Minbari life.

And in truth, nothing changed much. Few humans felt the Minbari portions of their souls as powerfully as Marcus did. As Jeffrey Sinclair had. For those few, a place was made as if they were from some strange lost Clan. For the rest, cautious friendships began to spring up where before only limited communication had existed, but there were still millennia worth of differences lying between them. They were not the same people; they had different beliefs and customs and histories and theories and biologies. But now, they had a chance to unite as the same heart. Neither Marcus nor Neroon – nor, indeed, their descendants to the tenth generation – would witness the eventual unity of their people. But they witnessed something greater and far more powerful than that final moment; they witnessed the first slow, halting steps towards it. The first outstretched hand, groping in the dark to find another hand to clasp to lay the foundations of a future of light.

Against all that, the brief notice of the marriage of an Alyt of the Star Riders – even if he had once been a Satai, and even if he had changed the world – was of minor interest at best. Marcus and Neroon were able to return to the Star Riders estate, where the news had hit with less shock than some areas, and continue their courtship. Only two rituals remained now.

***

“What next?” Marcus asked a couple of days later, when the news feeds had finally calmed down to their normal broadcasting rate and the questions for Neroon had stopped pouring in. He knew it was a brief lull; soon the news from Minbar would reach the other planets in the Federation and through them the wider universe outside of Minbari-controlled space, and he would be called upon to deal with the fallout. But for now, they had perhaps a week or two to themselves before the universe called them to duty once again.

“Now, we spar,” Neroon grinned, eyes darkening slightly with the memory of their last sparring session.

Marcus mirrored his reaction. “Here?”

“No,” Neroon answered. “In Yed’oore, at the great tournament center beside the temple. It is a public event; any who wish to may come. We will spar for one afternoon, as a show of our unity and our strength. The next morning we will face the final ritual.”

“The Na’fak Cha?” Marcus guessed. “Why in Yed’oore? Why can’t your mother conduct it here?”

Neroon smiled, and wrapped his arms around his ma’fela – soon to be his ma’fela no more. “Because we are living history now, Marcus. Like Delenn, we must live somewhat in the public eye.”

“Will our marriage make it difficult for her, since she obviously didn’t go through all the rituals or the proper ceremonies?” Marcus asked. 

“No,” Neroon assured him. “Delenn will, if anything, find that her life is easier when she is on Minbar, now. She is a symbol of the proclamations of our government instead of an embarrassment. She may have anticipated prophecy, but now she will become a figurehead of change. And through her, in time even Sheridan Starkiller will be welcomed among us as one of us. It is a great change for all our people, but it is also a good one.”

Marcus smiled, and leaned into Neroon’s strength. “All right then. When do we leave for the city?” 

“As soon as I can roust our daughter out of the clutches of her playmates,” Neroon chuckled. “Lennier packed for you, don’t worry. And after the Na’fak Cha we will come directly back here.”

“I feel bad, leaving Fara alone so much recently,” Marcus admitted. “I know she’s happy with the other children, but I should have found more time somewhere to devote to her.”

Neroon gave him an odd look. “You see her every day, at one meal or another. You often set aside hours to play with her and the other children, and you spend several evenings a week with her curled up by your side as you teach her about your history. Why should you feel guilty?”

“Human children live with their parents, not in a nursery with other children,” Marcus explained. “I know that it is not the Minbari way, and I know that she does not miss what she does not need, but some part of me keeps insisting that I’m a terrible parent.”

Neroon shook his head. “Marcus, she is a Minbari child. As such, one of her greatest needs at her age is to bond with her Clan. She needs to be part of the group, following or leading as necessary. But I will say she is very happy with the time you spend with her, and I believe it influences her for the better. I have rarely seen a better, more loving, more devoted father; perhaps that is because our children are raised by the entire Clan, and we are not quite so possessive of them as individuals. But I think not. I think it is just that you are a unique man, and you have more love in you to give than anyone I have ever know.”

Marcus blushed, and kissed him, and they were very nearly late for their shuttle. Lennier and Nerlin refrained from commenting as they ran in breathlessly, Marcus carting Fara on his back. She still hadn’t gotten over the amusement she got from messing his hair up and then combing through it while she was up there, so he looked rather like a half-finished bird’s nest when they finally made it.

“Where we going?” Fara asked, pulling some of her attention away from her abstract art with hair.

“To Yed’oore,” Neroon answered, pulling her off of Marcus’ shoulders and holding her while the human straightened his hair as best he could.

“Why?” Fara asked. Minbari children hit the ‘why’ stage far later than human children, possibly because they didn’t feel the urge to question things, so when it hit it was because they’d discovered it was a fine tactic for getting annoyed adults to bribe them with cookies.

“Because your papa and I have to participate in a couple of ceremonies,” Neroon answered her calmly.

“Why?”

“So we can finally get married,” Marcus chuckled.

“But then I can’t call you Marcus anymore!” Fara exclaimed in dismay.

Neroon and Marcus blinked, and stared at each other. “I completely forgot,” Neroon said, mildly horrified. “She can’t. Children her age have to have rigidly defined social networks; you can’t be ‘Sech Marcus’ and married to her father at the same time.”

“Easily solved,” Marcus smiled. “Fara, you can call me Dad, is that okay? It’s what I called my father.”

“Yes!” Fara squealed, then switched gears completely. “I want to be the girlflowers!”

All of the adults paused what they were doing and stared at her. 

“Sorry?” Marcus asked, finding his voice first. “What was that?”

“Miss Susan told me, while you were all busy with the wedding,” Fara explained, thinking this was perfectly logical.

Marcus put the explanation together, and burst out laughing. “Flower girl, you mean?” he clarified.

“Yes!” Fara nodded emphatically. “Flower girl!”

Marcus shook his head, still clearly amused. “Sweetie, Minbari don’t have flower girls at their weddings. Delenn only did because it was a human ceremony.”

“I want to be flower girl!” Fara insisted, in the tone of voice that every parent learns to dread.

“Perhaps you could explain?” Neroon requested, attempting to derail the tantrum.

“In a human wedding party, there are several ceremonial roles,” Marcus offered immediately, seeing the danger signs as clearly as Neroon did. “The bride and groom and their attendants, of course. Then there are the flower girl and the ring bearer. Traditionally, they are the youngest male and female relation of the couple; it doesn’t matter which side they’re on. The flower girl walks down the aisle ahead of the bride, scattering flower petals over the path she has to walk along. The ringbearer follows her in, carrying the wedding rings on a pillow. Couples who don’t have very young relatives often forgo the tradition entirely.”

Neroon absorbed this and nodded, leaning down to whisper in Fara’s ear. Marcus pretended he hadn’t heard his fiancé promise to work something out with the temple as long as she didn’t tell Marcus. It would keep her busy to have a conspiracy to work on while they were sparring.

The tournament center was much like any tournament dojo Marcus had ever seen pictures of; a large floor covered in firm mats with bleachers rising up the sides of the room for spectators to observe from. What did surprise him was the number of people there; it appeared Neroon’s observation about them being living history was accurate. Every seat was full, and the watchers had even spread out onto the parts of the floor they wouldn’t be using. Seats had been saved near the front for their family and friends, and they parted with good wishes and Fara’s enthusiastic wish for Marcus to trounce her father soundly. 

Neroon glared at him for teaching her such human habits, but ruined it by smiling as soon as he caught sight of the gleam in Marcus’ eyes. Like father, like daughter, he supposed. She’d make a fine Warrior one day. 

They changed quickly into their usual workout clothes, Marcus choosing the cream and brown Ranger version rather than the black Warrior Caste outfit he had been using at the estate. Neroon preferred him in the black, but he supposed the less temptation he had, the better. They took their places in the center of the ring, and waited for the call to begin. It wasn’t long in coming.

For the first hour or so they chased each other casually around the ring, not really attempting to win, more for the sheer joy of moving in concert with each other. The link they had forged during meditation surged to life, and they responded to each other’s movements almost before they were made. It was like a deadly ballet, and Neroon could tell by the silence from their audience that they were impressed with the skill being exhibited. 

Marcus won that round, getting in a lucky roll and sending Neroon down onto his back, denn’bok at his throat. Neroon acknowledged the victory and accepted the hand up the human offered him. They moved on to a different demonstration, this one a skill Marcus had been teaching the Star Riders; knife throwing. While knives had once been a common weapon on Minbar, Valen’s Ban had vastly diminished their use. The skill with which Marcus handled and hurled the deadly blades, thocking them all softly into the center of a target, was met with gasps of admiration from the crowd.

When they’d caught their breath they began again, the steps to their sparring now a little more militant, a little more serious. It took nearly an hour again before the deadly dance they were engaged in came to a close, this time with Marcus staring along Neroon’s weapon into his fiance’s glittering eyes. Both of them were breathing hard; they sparred regularly even outside of the rituals they’d been engaging in, but this was something different entirely. 

They broke away again for another demonstration of uncommon fighting skills, this time a set of katas that blended human and Minbari martial arts into one smooth whole. The crowd murmured appreciatively as the most advanced kata – they called it Snow Falling Softly – came to a close, and they bowed to each other before dropping into fighting stances again. 

This third time, the last time they would meet each other in combat this way, they left the practice weapons by the side of the ring. Bare-handed they wove back and forth along the cleared space, Neroon throwing out powerful thrusts of his arms and legs, Marcus weaving around them lightly and landing hits of his own. This kind of fighting was more intimate somehow than anything Neroon had ever been trained to do; in the course of a bout he had his hands all over his ma’fela, and Marcus certainly missed no opportunity to return the favour. 

It ended, as their previous ritual bouts had, in a firm draw. Marcus had swept Neroon’s feet from under him and trapped him on the ground, hands pressing into some of the crippling pressure points along his sides. Neroon, flat on his back, had one hand resting again at Marcus’ throat. He really seemed to like that tactic, Marcus reflected. Perhaps it was something related to his tendency to grab Marcus around the back of the neck prior to kissing the life out of him.

“A draw,” someone announced, and they rose to the Minbari version of a standing ovation. They bowed politely to their audience, then went to get changed. They were due to go out for dinner with the family, then spend the evening with Fara before getting up early tomorrow morning for the Na’fak Cha ceremony.

Somewhere in there, as well, Neroon had to find a way to have a clandestine talk with the High Priestess. He hoped she’d agree to his plans. Especially since he’d already set most of them in motion.

***

The next morning dawned clear and bright in Yed’oore. Marcus and Neroon were both awake to watch the sun come up; it was Minbari tradition to watch the rising sun on the day of one’s wedding. As the sun cleared the high cliffs and shot rainbows through the crystals buildings, Marcus smiled and burrowed close to Neroon. It was a good tradition; he would remember this moment happily.

They were interrupted by an excited Fara hurling herself up onto the bench between them and demanding hugs, something that still bemused Neroon slightly. She was such an odd combination of Minbari and human traits. But he loved her, and he loved the man who taught her such strange habits, so he hugged them both back and then pulled them up to go inside for breakfast.

Neroon would be wearing his most formal uniform, and Marcus had to help him into it after breakfast. Parts of it required a second pair of hands to secure. Ardiri arrived while they were finishing up, to collect Fara and her brother.

“Come on, Fara, I’ve got a new robe for you!” she smiled at the little girl, pausing to wipe jam off her hands while Marcus tied off the last bit of cording over Neroon’s heart. He leaned up for a kiss, and Ardiri cleared her throat pointedly.

“What?” Marcus asked, turning around.

“I thought human tradition said you weren’t supposed to do that on your wedding day?” Ardiri asked. “Isn’t it bad luck?”

Marcus blinked. “It’s bad luck for the bride – the woman – to see her husband before they meet at the altar,” he clarified, chuckling. “And for him to see her wedding dress. But I’m not a woman.”

“Ah,” Ardiri bowed. “My apologies. I have to steal my brother, though. There are a few details he has to take care of alone, and you need time to dress. Lennier is on his way to assist you, and take you to the temple when it’s time.”

Marcus’ eyes widened suddenly, and he turned a shell-shocked expression to Neroon. “We’re really here, aren’t we?” he asked. “We’re really about to get married.”

Neroon chuckled, but looked just as stunned. “Yes. 

Marcus nodded, kissed him goodbye, and watched him leave in a bit of a daze. Lennier found him there a couple of minutes later and nobly refrained from laughing at him, instead shepherding him into his room. 

“What are you wearing?” Lennier asked briskly. “We do not have much time.”

Marcus snapped out of it as best he could. “Not my uniform,” he said as Lennier began to pull out his cloak. “Not to my own wedding. My mother would never forgive me.”

“I thought military men on your world often married in their dress uniform,” Lennier questioned.

“They do. Two problems with that; the Rangers aren’t a specifically military organization, and we don’t have a dress uniform. This is too special a day to wear the everyday version to.”

“Ah,” Lennier nodded. “I understand. What then?”

“This,” Marcus said, pulling a wrapped bundle out of his bag. Luckily he’d been keeping it there to hide if from Neroon; if he hadn’t, it might well have been left in Ilriam when Lennier packed for him.

“I wondered what that was,” Lennier said. “It didn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen.”

“It isn’t like anything you’ve seen yet,” Marcus said. “It’s a very old style of clothing. Only worn by men from my parent’s region of earth, and then only on very special occasions these days. My parent’s people had clans, a long time ago. Not quite like the Minbari idea of Clans; they were really just associated families that lived together, but each clan had its own colours and motto.”

“What was yours?” Lennier asked, fascinated. He’d never heard this kind of earth history.

“The motto?” Marcus asked. “Well, the Cole family is a sept – that’s like a Fane – of the Clan MacDougall, so we used theirs. ‘To conquer or to die’. Rather appropriate in the end, I suppose. Anyway, my mother would never forgive me if I didn’t get married in this.”

Lennier watched, amazed, as Marcus pulled various items out of the bundle and laid them in a very specific order on the bed before beginning to dress. First went a dark formal shirt, not unlike the kind he’d seen Sheridan or Garibaldi sporting. The buttons up the front were beautifully carved pearl. 

“This isn’t quite traditional,” Marcus explained as he finished securing the shirt. “It really should be white, with ruffles. But I hate white, and I hate ruffles.” He took up the next item, a length of fabric in the pattern Lennier had heard referred to as plaid. This one was primarily red, with smaller patches of black and lines of some paler colour – either white or a very faded blue, Lennier couldn’t tell.

Marcus wrapped this around his waist, securing it with hidden buttons, and let it hang. The bottom of the pleats touched his knees, and he smiled in approval. He hadn’t been able to try the thing on since he’d asked Reed to get it for him through the Rangers, and he hadn’t been entirely sure it would fit properly. He lifted his isil’zha and held it for a moment, before turning to Lennier.

“Will you secure this for me?” he asked his friend.

“If you tell me where,” Lennier answered. “I have never seen a human man dressed this way. Don’t the women usually wear – skirts, I believe is the proper word?”

Marcus chuckled. “This isn’t a skirt, Lennier. It’s a kilt. A fine distinction I grant you, but my ancestors did indeed wear these. Normally, a clan crest would be pinned about two thirds of the way down the front, to hold the overlapping edge down. Since the Rangers are my Clan now, I thought this might be appropriate.”

Lennier nodded, and knelt to affix the isil’zha in the spot Marcus indicated. He was careful to pin it through both layers of fabric.

“Thank you,” Marcus smiled at him, then sat down to pull on thick wool knee socks and heavy black shoes. He took a sheathed dagger and set it carefully into the top of one sock, then stood again and fixed some kind of pouch around his waist on a silver chain, clipping his denn’bok to the chain as well when he had it positioned correctly. The pouch was furry. Lennier had to shake his head at that. Some human customs, he just wasn’t going to ask about.

Marcus finished by brushing his hair out and tying it at the back of his neck with the silver clasp he rarely wore. His hair was longer now than it had been when he first met Neroon, falling below his shoulders. He probably should have gotten it cut, but it was too late now. He carefully combed through his beard, and examined his outfit in the mirror. Not entirely traditional; the shirt was in the new style and he had decided against any kind of jacket, but it would do. 

“I’m ready,” he told his friend.

Lennier nodded, and led the way to the door. “Is there anything you wish to bring?”

Marcus shook his head. “Just myself. It’s all I’ve ever had to give him; why break tradition now?”

Lennier looked slightly confused at that comment, but let it pass, leading Marcus out of the door and down to their waiting transport. The Minbari they met on the way to the temple took a second look at the strange clothing the human was wearing, but he seemed oblivious, focused on what was about to happen. Lennier had to hide his smile more than once. If only Marcus knew.

They reached the temple nearly an hour before the ceremony was due to begin. Already a number of high-ranked Minbari filled the observer’s section; the marriage of an Alyt and Clan heir was an important event, even when it wasn’t making history. Neroon and his family were sequestered deeper within the temple, but Lennier led Marcus over to a small antechamber near the doors.

“Good God, you’re wearing a kilt!” was the first thing out of Susan Ivanova’s mouth when Marcus stepped into the room. 

The stunned Ranger stopped dead and stared around the room. Everyone had come; Chad and Reed from Tuzan’oore, Sheridan and Delenn, Susan, Stephen and Michael, G’kar, Londo. Even Vir, he saw, hiding in the background and looking decidedly nervous.

“What?” Marcus gasped, then turned to stare at Lennier. “Did you do this?” he asked, voice thick.

“No,” Lennier denied. “I only knew about it. Neroon did not want you married without your family present. He wishes to include as many portions of the human ceremony as he can to honour you, since with the decision of the Marka’ri Minsa your rituals are now as valid as those of any other Clan. I was instructed to have you choose which of us will be your – best man? I think that’s what he called it – and who will escort you to the altar.”

Marcus’ eyes were suspiciously bright as he swept Lennier up in a hug before treating the rest of his eclectic family to the same. They didn’t say anything about it, though.

“So Marcus, what’ll it be?” Sheridan asked jovially after Marcus had regained most of his composure.

Marcus shook his head. “I never expected this… give me a moment?” he looked around at them all. “Lennier, of course you’ll be my best man. You’ve been with me all the way through these bloody rituals, and you’ve been a friend when I needed one. I couldn’t possibly ask anyone else.”

Lennier seemed rather emotional himself, but he simply bowed. “I would be honoured.”

Marcus smiled, and turned to the more pressing question. He understood the symbolism of it, of course. He wasn’t a woman, but to the Minbari that wouldn’t matter. By their way of thinking, his Clan was giving him to the Star Riders and if his own people had a tradition that involved giving their children away, he would obviously follow it. It was that simple. But who to choose? If Sinclair had still been around, Marcus would have chosen him. No one else since his father died had been that much of a mentor, despite their best efforts.

“G’kar,” he asked finally. “Will you do me the honour of escorting me to the altar?”

The humans seemed startled at that, and he guessed they’d thought he would pick Sheridan, or perhaps one of his Ranger cohorts. But the other two Rangers were even younger than he was, and Sheridan – just no. He might be co-head of the Anla’Shok, and President of the Interstellar Alliance, but Marcus just wasn’t quite that close to the man. Besides, they were making enough history here today. They didn’t need to include Sheridan Starkiller in an important ceremony just to cause controversy. Too many of the Warrior Caste were still hurting from the loss of loved ones at his hands. Delenn was the other possibility, of course, but Marcus was uncomfortable with that idea for similar reasons.

“Me?” G’Kar seemed startled to be asked. “Wouldn’t you rather have one of your own people? I confess I know little about what is required.”

Marcus smiled. “No one here is cleaving exactly to tradition, G’Kar. You more than anyone else understand what it is to put aside past hatreds to build a better future. You’ve always offered wise council when I need it. I can think of no one more appropriate. Of course, this means that you’ll also have to make a speech.” He grinned.

“A speech?” G’Kar wondered. “Well, I’d be delighted, of course. But I haven’t had time to write anything!”

“That’s ok, G’Kar,” Sheridan assured him. “The speech isn’t until the reception afterwards. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” G’Kar bowed slightly. “Marcus, I would be honoured.”

“Good,” Marcus smiled. “Lennier, how long do we have?” 

“Half an hour, perhaps,” Lennier told him, glancing out at the clock in the entryway. Marcus nodded, and engaged Susan in conversation, trying to control his nerves.

Half an hour later most of the group had gone in to find seats while Marcus, Lennier, and G’Kar waited just outside the archway that led into the temple proper. Marcus didn’t know what they were waiting for until a not quite waist-high figure in a very pretty blue robe was led up by his sister-in-law, clutching a basket.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Ardiri whispered to him, “But she just had to be the flower girl.”

Marcus chuckled. “I don’t mind at all,” he said, and leaned down to give his daughter a quick hug before pushing her up in front of Lennier. Inside the temple, a chime struck marking the beginning of the ceremony.

“Today we gather to witness the marriage of Alyt Neroon of the Star Riders Clan to Marcus Cole of the Anla’Shok,” Teerin of Mir, the High Priestess of all Minbar, proclaimed into the silence. “It has always been our tradition that when those of different Castes and Clans wed, the ceremony should combine elements of both their heritage. So it is that today we include some of the rituals of Marcus Cole’s people. I ask that you respect these traditions as you would those of any other Clan.”

After that introductory speech, she nodded to the side and one of her acolytes rang a small set of bells. As if responding to a pre-arranged signal Fara took that cue to step forward, walking slowly and solemnly down the aisle and scattering small white petals rather more sedately and artistically than any human flower girl had ever managed. Lennier followed her, moving to stand beside Ardiri to one side of the altar. Neroon waited at the other side, turned toward the entrance to await his ma’fela.

Another set of bells rang, and G’Kar offered Marcus his arm with great pomp. Marcus smiled and took it, and he entered the temple in step with the Narn ambassador. Neroon’s eyes widened almost comically, then darkened past what Marcus had seen except for the night of their Shon’fal. Apparently Neroon liked the kilt. Marcus smirked to himself. It appeared Minbari and humans had that much in common, at least.

G’Kar took Marcus’ hand from his arm when they reached the altar, and reached out and took Neroon’s hand, a gesture that was met with startled gasps from the watching Minbari. G’Kar joined their hands, and rested one of his over them.

“Our Clan, such as it is, gives him into your care,” the Narn stated, and that explanation resonated enough with the Minbari that the mild impropriety of touch was overlooked. G’Kar took his seat in the front, next to the rest of Marcus’ friends, and together they turned to face Teerin.

“Valen said, will you follow me into fire?” she proclaimed, lighting a candle. And with that, the ceremony was begun. 

Marcus didn’t really register most of what the Priestess said. His participation wasn’t required until the very end, anyway. He found that he couldn’t take his eyes off of Neroon, which was ridiculous; they’d been living practically in each other’s pockets for the past year or more. But somehow, standing here with Neroon at his side, their hands clasped human fashion between them as Teerin read the wedding ceremony was entirely different.

Neroon’s eyes spoke volumes of his love and respect, and also a healthy dose of lust whenever he flicked a glance downward at what Marcus was wearing. At least significant looks were traditional for the wedding portion of the Na’fak Cha, otherwise they’d have been in trouble.

“Taste of it,” Teerin finally commanded them, holding one of the glass pyramid dishes that traditionally contained the Na’fak berries. Neroon took one and set it at Marcus’ lips, and Marcus smiled as he did the same. They swallowed the berries together, Marcus smiling at the sweet taste they left on his tongue. On any other world these would be candy, not objects of ceremony, he thought.

“You have tasted of death and renewal, and are now reborn as one where once there were two,” Teerin proclaimed, then nodded to Neroon.

“Marcus Cole,” Neroon said, reaching into a hidden pouch at his waist and removing something small and glittering. Marcus blinked in surprise. Usually the ceremony ended there.

“Yes?” he asked.

Neroon lifted their joined hands, dropping a brief kiss onto the engagement ring that rested on Marcus’ ring finger. “It is not our tradition to wear a symbol of marriage, but it is yours. Marcus Cole, with my hands I give you my heart, and crown it with my love. With this ring, I thee wed.” Neroon slipped another slim gold band onto Marcus’ finger.

Marcus stared down at his hand in shock. Not only was it a human marriage band, it was a claddagh ring, two hands cupping a crowned heart. The traditional betrothal and marriage ring of Ireland, which had in recent centuries become traditional for anyone from the British Isles. Neroon had even researched the symbolism behind it, and had slipped it onto his hand in the proper position to indicate that he was married. Marcus’ eyes moved back up to Neroon, and his smile could have powered the fusion reactor of Babylon 5.

Teerin was smiling as well as she finished the ceremony. “And so it begins,” she proclaimed. Neroon leaned in to give Marcus a brief kiss, sealing their vows the human way, before turning them to face the watching crowd. The Minbari looked both confused and pleased; several of Marcus’ friends just looked confused, since the ceremony had been conducted in Adrihi’e.

“I give you Neroon and Marcus Cole of the Star Riders Clan,” Teerin announced, then repeated herself in standard. The Minbari stood and bowed to them, and Marcus and Neroon bowed back. Then they made their way out of the temple, their family and friends joining them. A reception combining human and Minbari elements had been set up at their hotel.

Once everyone had arrived and been seated with a plate of food before them, Neroon stood from his place in the center of the high table and addressed the small crowd.

“While it is our tradition at this point to simply mingle, allowing the new couple time to speak to those who are important in their lives on such a joyous day, it is the tradition of Marcus’ people for a speech to be offered by the head of each Clan. I would like to follow this tradition today. Aunt Aalann?” he invited.

The older woman got to her feet, and raised her glass in toast to Neroon and Marcus. “I will be brief. Today the Star Riders have gained a son, a Warrior we are proud to welcome among our ranks. Today we have also gained renewal and hope for the future of our people. Welcome to our Clan, Marcus Cole. We welcome your Clan as allies, friends, and kin.” She bowed to them, and sat back down.

G’Kar stood next. “Marcus asked me to speak for his Clan, such as it is. It is hard to know where to begin, since we are such a diverse set of peoples from so many different worlds. We hold many different beliefs. But the one thing we all have in common is a belief in the rightness of following one’s heart, even if it leads you down a strange road. Sometimes, I believe that is all that could unite us. The power of belief is among the strongest in the universe; one man, believing in his cause, can do more to change the world than a thousand men with weapons. Such a man is Marcus Cole, and I have come to know that such a man is also Neroon of the Star Riders.

“I am told that among Marcus’ people there are certain blessings it is traditional to give the couple. I believe I have located a suitable one.” He lifted his glass. “Marcus and Neroon, may you always have enough happiness to keep you sweet, enough trials to keep you strong, enough success to keep you eager, enough faith to give you courage, and enough determination to face each day together no matter what it brings.”

The company raised their glasses as well when he finished, and toasted them soundly. Marcus was touched again by how hard they’d all tried to bring his own family traditions into the ceremony. It made an already special day just a bit more so. He stood when G’Kar sat down, intent on adding his thanks now while they were all here.

“Thank you. I truly didn’t expect any of this, and it is a very great honour,” he told them. “My mother offered a blessing to any travellers who passed through our home, and I would like to offer it to you, as a token of my thanks.” He paused to call up the old familiar words, unconsciously slipping into his mother’s thicker accent as he spoke them. “May the road rise to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rains fall softly on your fields. And until we meet again, may God hold you safely in the palm of his hand.” He raised his glass. “To my family, born and found, old and new.”

“To family,” their gathered family and friends echoed, everyone drinking. 

From there the reception turned more Minbari in style and Marcus and Neroon mingled with their guests contentedly, never out of arms’ reach of each other. Those who had come from Babylon 5 for the wedding had to be on a Whitestar later that afternoon to make it back to the station. It appeared they’d all taken leave rather suddenly when Neroon’s call had come through, and they’d left the station somewhat understaffed. With Sheridan’s resignation, command of the station had fallen to Susan, and she’d left the place under the watchful eye of her new and rather inexperienced second in command. 

Marcus, remembering well the regularity with which things on Babylon 5 tended to go awry, was doubly honoured that they would take such a chance just to be with him today. Then again, they’d brought all the major ambassadors and Sheridan with them. That took care of three quarters of the trouble spots right there.

The reception wound to a close in the early afternoon, allowing the others to get to their shuttle and the Star Riders to return to Ilriam. Marcus wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to being officially a member of the Clan, but as he looked wonderingly at his wedding band, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He rather liked the elated sensation he got whenever he considered it. It wasn’t quite what he’d pictured when he was little, for his wedding day, but that was all right in the end. The reality was better than any dream could have been.

Fara was worn out by the activities of the day, and her grandparents took her inside to put her to bed as the rest of the family dispersed and Neroon led Marcus along a cleared path through the still muddy and brownish yard to the courtyard gardens near the family wing. They’d be retiring shortly to their rooms, and Marcus was somewhat distracted imagining what would take place there. Despite the Shon’fal, he wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

“What are you thinking?” Neroon asked as they strolled through the garden together, arm in arm. 

“How happy I am here,” Marcus responded, smiling up at him. “And how much I love you, husband.”

Neroon’s eyes widened, and he leaned in for a deep kiss. “My mala. There were days I thought I’d never actually say those words.”

Marcus smiled, and leaned into him as Neroon led them further into the garden, closer and closer to the doors nearest their rooms.

“Why did we come this way?” Marcus asked after a moment.

“I wish to show you something,” Neroon said, stopping near a patch of garden clear of bushes of any kind.

“It’s a patch of ground,” Marcus observed, smiling. “Is there some profound meaning I’ve missed?”

Neroon chuckled. “No. It’s a patch of ground. But in a week, it will be the ideal time for planting. Susan told me that the rose you keep with you comes from a plant that can be cut and planted to grow a second plant, and that it is a hardy specimen and can survive most climates. I would be very honoured if you would join your family history to mine, and allow us to plant a cutting of it here.”

Marcus stared at him, completely speechless. The events of the day had been one thing but this… this was something else entirely. He made a wordless sound somewhere in his throat and threw himself at his husband, tears of surprised joy standing out in his eyes. 

Neroon caught him and lifted him off the ground, carrying him easily with an arm under his knees and one across his back. “Marcus?” he asked, concerned.

“Neroon,” Marcus laughed, smiling through his tears and reaching up to kiss his husband. “I believe I am the happiest man in the universe.”

Neroon smiled down at him, and began moving again, kicking the door open and carrying Marcus through a short length of hallway to their rooms. He secured the door behind them before he set Marcus back on his feet.

“Let’s see if I can make you even happier, then,” Neroon threatened – or perhaps, promised – as he advanced on his new mala. Marcus backed away playfully until they ended up beside the bed. “This clothing of yours has been driving me insane all day. Are you even wearing anything under that?”

Marcus smirked coyly up at him. “Wear something under a kilt? My mother would never forgive me,” he laughed. Neroon pounced, rolling them both back into the bed, and very little was said after that.

In the outer room, in a place of honour on the altar, a single rose bloomed a deeper, more vibrant red than it had in many years. Above it, just outside the window, a bird sang a song of renewal as the first buds tentatively poked their heads out after a long hibernation.

Spring had come to Minbar.

And so it begins…


End file.
